


There is a Fire

by speakingwosound (sev313)



Series: The Greatest Show on Earth [2]
Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Circus, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Blind Character, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Period-Typical Marriages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:04:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 80,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21836803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sev313/pseuds/speakingwosound
Summary: “Were you worth saving, Jonathan Favreau?"
Relationships: Jon/Tommy/Lovett/Dan/Alyssa/Elijah/Michael/Priyanka/Tanya/Emily
Series: The Greatest Show on Earth [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1588606
Comments: 45
Kudos: 24
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	1. Prologue: Boston

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LilyRosePotter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilyRosePotter/gifts).

> The prologue for this was written for Maddie for YT 2019. It has, ahh, grown to over 70k since that point and is now complete. I'll be posting two chapters a week until all chapters are posted. This fic has been a labor of love and I really hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Very very belated Happy Yuletide Maddie!
> 
> Warning: Jon's father is an asshole in this fic. This has no bearing on or resemblance to Jon's real life father. In fact, I'm not even using the same name. No harm was meant!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What can you do?” Elijah asks, easy, simple, like Jon’s power is a gift and not the curse Jon’s father has always told him it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Yuletide 2019. LilyRosePotter, I hope you enjoy this little slice of an AU verse as much as I enjoyed writing it!

**Boston, Massachusetts 1910**

“Jonathan.”

Jon doesn’t look away from the gorilla in the giant cage as it stretches its arm, reaching through the bars with its long, human-like fingers, and reaching for the sweaty nuts clutched in Jon’s hands. They’re roasted and dusted in cinnamon, just like he likes them. Just like the gorilla likes them too, it seems. Jon opens his fingers, sliding his hand through the bars and laughing as the gorilla grabs one, its fingers strong and warm and gentle.

“Jonathan,” his father repeats, and Jon feels a heavy hand on the back of his neck. “That animal is filthy, clean your hand. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

Jon frowns up at his dad, wiping his hand on his pants. “He doesn’t look dirty.”

“It is. Everything in here is filthy.” His father frowns, his fingers tightening into a pinch on Jon’s neck as he hands over his handkerchief. “Don’t spread it on your pants, your mother had those made special.”

Jon wipes his fingers quickly on the handkerchief before handing it back. His father nods, approvingly, and moves his grip down to Jon’s bicep, pulling him forward.

“Jonathan, this is Mr. Franzen. He’s the one who came to me with the deal for the land we’re standing on. We owe him a great debt of gratitude, this deal’s going to make us a fortune. Mr. Franzen, this is my oldest boy, Jonathan.”

Jon nods, holding out his newly-cleaned hand. “How do you do, Mr. Franzen?”

“Well aren’t you a gentleman?” Mr. Franzen bends down, his hands spread on his thighs. He’s wearing a pinstriped suit, tailored to fit his thin frame, impeccable despite a full day under the sweltering, muddy tent with the rest of them. He’s wearing a tall satin hat over a thick head of greying hair and cold blue eyes. “Did you enjoy the show?”

Jon glances at his father. He bites his lip. He knows he’s supposed to say _no_. He knows he’s supposed to say it was dirty and degenerate and all the things his father’s been saying at the dinner table for weeks. _I don’t know what’s gotten into this town, even the _mayor _is waxing on about that damn circus and its band of freaks, but no mind, those degenerates are going to make us a great deal of money_. But Jon’s mind is full of trapeze artists flying through the air like birds, elephants dressed in crowns and jewels, the tightrope walker who glided across a tiny wire in the sky like it was as thick as a tree trunk. Jon trips on sidewalk cracks on the way to school half his mornings. Jon nods. “It was magnificent.”

“It was, wasn’t it?” Mr. Franzen’s eyes sparkle and he reaches out to ruffle Jon’s hair. “You never know what kind of magic you’ll find at the circus.”

Jon nods. “Yes, sir.”

Jon’s father shakes his head, his hand heavy on Jon’s shoulder. “Magic always comes with a price.”

Mr. Franzen laughs. “Do you want to see some magic, young man?”

Jon nods quickly, his eyes wide as he watches Mr. Franzen’s long fingers disappear behind Jon’s ear and come back with a nickel. Jon grins, “wow.”

Mr. Franzen laughs and holds out the coin. “Why don’t you take that and buy yourself something to eat? Your father and I have some business to discuss.”

Jon nods, taking the coin reverently. “Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t go too far,” his father warns. “Your mother’s making meatloaf for dinner and we don’t want to be late.”

“No, sir,” Jon promises, already backing away. He can’t believe his luck. A nickel - a _whole nickel_ \- and the directive to make himself scarce. He waits until his father and Mr. Franzen are out of sight, but then he turns and turns and turns, trying to take everything in at once. The tent doesn’t even have _corners_, just curves upon curves of the most delicious smells and the most eye-popping sights and sounds that he’s never heard before in their quiet, respectful house or his regimented schoolyard. 

Jon doesn’t know where to look first. The women with the kinds of long, straight skirts in pinks and oranges and purples that his mother looks at longingly sometimes but never buys. The men in tattered and stained overalls, sharing pints of foaming beer and the kind of guffawing laughter that Jon’s never heard from his own father. The men and women walking through the crowds with their arms full of sweets and nuts and colorful nests of sugar.

Jon trades his nickel for a wax paper bag of sweets, big enough to fill his palm. It’s sticky at the bottom and he grins as he peels a piece of peanut butter crunch from the top and pops it into his mouth. He groans as it melts in his mouth, reaching in for a cinnamon stick as he stops in front of a sign that says _Menagerie, This Way_.

Jon glances down the dark hallway and back to where he’s lost his father in the crowd. He knows he shouldn’t. _Don’t go too far, _his father had said, and Jon does like his mother’s meatloaf. But he can hear roars and rattles and caws and Jon takes a giant bite of the cinnamon stick as he steps into the hallway.

The menagerie tent is no less crowded than the main tent, but Jon squeezes past legs and skirts and smaller children than him, stuck holding their parents’ hands, and finds his way to the front of the cage. Jon looks up and up and up at a giraffe, its neck reaching all the way into the sky. “Hi,” he waves, his fingers sticky around half the cinnamon stick.

The giraffe makes a soft sound and lowers its neck, down down down, so that it can nose through the bars at Jon’s hand. Its nose is cold and wet and Jon laughs as it sticks its tongue out, rough against his palm as it steals the candy.

“Candy isn’t good for her,” a voice says next to him. “But it’s good for me.”

“Oh.” Jon looks over to see a boy, a little younger than Jon is but a foot taller, with dark soulful eyes and a mop of dark hair falling into his eyes. Jon’s mother never lets him grow it that long. She never lets him wear overalls, either, but the boy looks so comfortable in them that Jon suddenly wishes she would. Jon holds out the bag. “You want some?”

The boy reaches a hand in, drawing out a wad of sticky toffee and caramel chews. “Thanks. I’m Elijah.”

“Jon,” Jon nods. “Sorry about the giraffe.”

Elijah shrugs. His shoulders are thin but strong in his rough spun shirt. “She says she likes it.” He turns to look up at the giraffe. “No, I will _not_ tell him that.”

Jon frowns between Elijah and the giraffe, wondering if his new friend isn’t maybe a little bit mad. His father does say that the circus attracts all kinds of folks, maybe this is why he hadn’t wanted to bring Jon along with him today. “Ahh, are you okay?

Elijah nods, shoving his hands into his pockets sheepishly. “Sorry, I always forget that I’m not supposed to let plebs know I can do that.”

“I’m not a pleb,” Jon frowns. “Take that back.”

Elijah shrugs easily again. “You’re not circus folk.”

Jon’s heart is beating wildly with the possibility - _maybe, maybe, maybe_ against his ribcage - but he pushes it away. He crosses his arms over his chest. He’s regretting sharing his candy with this stupid boy, now. “Of course I’m not. Why would I want to be a circus freak?”

“Hey.” Elijah’s mouth twists. “That wasn’t very nice.”

Jon rolls his eyes. “You think you can talk to animals, you seem like a freak to me.”

“I _can_ talk to animals.”

“Prove it.”

“Okay.” Elijah pulls his hand out of his pocket, grabbing Jon’s so quickly that Jon forgets to be mad or afraid or any of the other things he’s pretty sure he’s supposed to be feeling, because Elijah’s pulling him back, between the cages. The circus is different back here, quieter, smellier, and every person they pass seems to be too busy to pay any mind to two small boys.

Jon watches men throw barrels of hay over their shoulders and women dressed scandalously in wide pants dragging buckets of meat covered in flies. Jon wrinkles his nose. “Should we be here?”

“I work here,” Elijah nods. “The Batty Brothers took me in after my parents farm burned down.”

Jon glances around. “Your parents work here too?”

Elijah looks down at their clasped hands, “my parents didn’t make it.” 

Jon’s feet stop, sliding in the hay and manure, but Elijah pulls him the rest of the way to stop in front of a large cage. Jon looks up into the yellow eyes of a full grown tiger and forgets everything he was going to say. “Wow.”

Elijah grins, dropping Jon’s hand to hold out his palm. “Do you have any cinnamon left?”

Jon nods, digging into the bag and handing over a small hard candy. “She’s allowed to have candy?”

“Not really.” Elijah shrugs. “But she had to jump through hoops of fire an hour ago, so she deserves a treat. She loves cinnamon.”

Jon swallows. He remembers the act, it was one of his favorites. The ring master had used his big whip to get a tiger - _this _tiger, apparently - to jump through increasingly higher rings of fire. It was incredible. “She was amazing. Even my father liked it, I think.”

“Yeah.” Elijah opens the cage and steps through, ignoring Jon’s cries of protest. He leaves the door open as he speaks, low and calmly, to the tiger. She growls for a moment, but then she lies down on her side, holding up her hind leg for Elijah to see. “Hand me that jar of cream?”

Jon looks behind him and grabs the giant jar of burn cream. “Was she hurt?”

Elijah shrugs, grabbing a dollop of it and rubbing it gently into her singed fur. “It happens sometimes. She’s scared of fire.”

“She does a fire trick,” Jon frowns. “Isn’t there something else she could do?”

“No.” Elijah murmurs to her quietly for a moment, and the tiger starts to purr into his hands. “But someday, I’m going to be running this circus and I won’t make any of the animals do acts they don’t wanna do.”

Jon takes a tentative step into the cage. “That would be amazing.”

Elijah nods. “Someday. Do you wanna touch her?”

“Can I?” Jon asks.

“Ask her.”

Jon scoffs, but Elijah’s already turned back to the cream. Jon sighs, feeling incredibly stupid as he takes a step forward and bows her head. “Excuse me, ahh, Ms. Tiger, would you mind if I, um, touched you? Not where you’re hurt. Your face maybe?”

Elijah laughs a little and pats her haunches. “She says you can pet her ears, but only if you scratch right behind her left one. It’s been itching all day.”

Jon reaches forward, keeping his body angled away and poised to run if she so much as sighs in his direction. She follows him, her eyes yellow and wide and wary, and keeps following him until he touches the top of her head. “Her left or my left?” He asks, feeling even stupider.

Elijah laughs. “Hers. Stage directions in the ring are always hers.”

“Okay.” Jon swallows, reaching behind her left ear and scratching lightly. She makes a sound, deep in her long, powerful throat and Jon jumps away.

Elijah giggles into his elbow. “That means she likes it. Try again.”

Jon nods, taking another step towards her and digging his fingernails behind her ear, scratching harder and faster. She _purrs_, loud and rattling, and starts to roll over. Her back leg kicks and Elijah jumps out of the way.

“She’s saying thank you,” he grins, stepping up by Jon. “And that you must be okay.”

Jon nods, not taking his eyes from her. “Tell her she’s pretty okay too.”

“She knows.”

“So, ahh.” Jon swallows. “You can talk to animals?”

Elijah nods. “It’s my gift.”

“Huh.” Jon glances up at him. His eyes are still dark and open, the warmest shade of brown Jon has ever seen. “I’ve never thought about it that way.”

“I can talk to tigers, that’s pretty great.”

“Yeah,” Jon laughs, “I guess it is.”

“What can you do?”

Jon freezes, every muscle from his big toe to the tips of his ears freezing. He’s never- no one’s ever asked him like that before. Easy, simple, like it’s obvious, like it’s a _good _thing and not the curse Jon’s father has told him it is. “Wanna see?”

Elijah nods. “Of course.”

Jon nods, not able to hide the grin from his face as he reaches for Elijah’s hand. “Come with me.”

Elijah laughs, jogging behind Jon to keep up as Jon pulls them back through the animal tent and into the main tent. They’re hit with a wave all at once: the jingle of laughter and coins, the rush of heat and body odor, the smell of turkey legs and- 

Jon gets an idea. 

He pulls Elijah to a stop in front of a middle aged gentleman, well-dressed like his father, and tugs at the hem of the man’s jacket. “Excuse me, sir? I don’t mean to bother you.”

The man growls, “fucking ruffians, this tent is full of pickpockets, shoo boy,” and then looks down, his entire face lightening when he sees Jon. “I’m sorry, young man, I didn’t see you there. How can I help you?”

Jon smiles up at him, the proper kind of smile that he’s learned at school. He gathers his power and pushes it into his expression and his words. “It’s okay. I’m only wondering, can we trouble you for a dollar?”

Next to him, Elijah gasps. Jon steps on his foot.

“Why of course.” The man pulls out his wallet, digging through the coins for a paper bill. “Don’t spend it all in one place.”

“Of course not,” Jon grins, tacking on, “sir,” only after he has the bill folded in his palm.

The man nods absently, already turning away, frowning a little as he looks down at his wallet. Jon grins, grabbing Elijah’s hand again and pulling him towards the first cart he sees. He buys them two turkey legs and two ginger ales and pulls Elijah into the quietest corner of the tent he can find.

“Here,” Jon grins, handing Elijah his half of their bounty and the rest of the change. “I don’t need this, you should keep it.”

Elijah holds the turkey leg loosely in his hand, gravy dripping down his fingers. “That was incredible. How did you _do _that?”

Jon shrugs. “You can talk to animals. I can get people to do things that I want them to.”

“Wow.” Elijah grins, wide enough for Jon to see every one of his teeth. “That’s much more useful than my thing.”

Jon shrugs, taking a giant bite of his turkey leg. “Less fun, though.”

Elijah shrugs. “I don’t know. If it’s used right-”

Jon takes another large bite and shrugs again. “Maybe.”

“Well,” Elijah says, slowly, holding up the turkey leg reverently. “Thank you. This looks amazing.”

“It is,” Jon agrees, his mouth half full. “And you can repay me by telling me all about the circus. Tell me everything.”

Elijah’s halfway through his first story - _swimming with elephants_, isn’t that just the most amazing thing? - when Jon hears a voice that makes his blood turn cold.

“Jonathan Edward Favreau,” his father calls, moments before Jon feels his father’s hand on his arm. His fingers dig in tight, tight enough to reach bone, and Jon flinches. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

“Sorry,” Jon tries. “I met this boy-” He motions towards Elijah but, when he turns, Elijah’s already gone, not even a drop of gravy or half a ginger ale betraying his presence.

“What have I told you about an overactive imagination?” His father asks, his voice calm, unlike his flushed cheeks and the flash of his eyes.

Jon swallows. The turkey tastes dry on his tongue. “That it only leads to trouble.”

“You’d do well to remember that,” his father growls, dragging Jon up and with him and towards the front of the tent where their family carriage is waiting. “And where did you get that?”

Jon looks down at the bone in his hand and thinks quickly. “Mr. Franzen gave me a nickel.”

“A nickel wouldn’t buy meat and a soda.” His father shoves him into the carriage roughly and slams the door behind him. “I will ask one more time. Where did you get that?”

Jon swallows. “I asked for it.”

His father’s eyes flash gold and brown, fire that shivers through Jon’s chest. His hand reaches out, grabbing onto Jon’s wrist and holding it out the window, twisting until Jon drops the bone with a yelp. The leg drops to the cobblestones and mud and Jon watches as a pack of stray dogs descends on it.

“I wanted it,” Jon says, defiantly, pulling his hand back in and crossing it over his chest. He thinks about the warmth in Elijah’s eyes. He hears Elijah ask _what can you do?_ “So I took it, just like you’ve taught me.”

“Not in _public_,” his father growls. “Not where others can _see_. And not for something so frivolous. What, do you want to end up in a freak show like this?”

Jon thinks about the men in overalls. He thinks about the tiger purring into his touch. He thinks about lugging hay with calloused hands and a persistent manure smell under his fingernails.

“Well,” his father pushes, his eyes flashing and his hands tight around his own knees. “Do you?”

“No,” Jon swallows. “No, sir.”

“I knew it was a mistake to bring you here,” his father sighs. “Your mother is too soft on you.”

“Yes, sir,” Jon agrees. In the distance, he can see the tent fading from view.

***


	2. Dallas to Austin

**Dallas, Texas 1934**

“In short, gentleman,” Jon finishes, pushing his hands into his pockets and turning on his best grin, “that’s why Favreau Industries would be an excellent partner in this endeavor. I’ll be returning to Boston in the morning, but if you have your bid to me by 8 p.m. I can have a decision to you before I leave. If there’s nothing else-”

Jon lets it hang there for a moment, looking around at the six upturned faces, all already nodding and smiling to each other.

“I’ll leave you to discuss amongst yourselves while I go enjoy this world-renowned bar you’ve built,” he finishes with a grin.

The room fills with laughter and Jon gathers his things, putting every ounce of his power of persuasion behind his smile and his final handshakes. As the door closes shut behind the final contractor, he turns that smile on himself. He’ll have a bid long before 8 p.m. and, if his power hasn’t let him down, it’ll be at least 20% above market rate. His father will be pleased.

Nothing left then but to wait out the lack of suspense with a gin and tonic - “best gin you’ve got, spare no expense and none of that local bathtub bullshit” - and a dozen oysters - “imported, I hope, preferably from Louisiana” - and the woman at the end of the bar who’s already snuck a dozen looks at him when she thought he wasn’t looking. She’s blond, her long legs crossed and visible under a slinky sequin number that hugs her neck but does nothing to hide the curve of her breasts.

Jon finishes his last oyster, licks the juice off his fingers, and orders another two drinks before heading down the bar to sit next to her. “You looked lonely,” he says, sliding a glass towards her.

“So do you.” She nods pointedly at his empty plate of oysters. “But I won’t say no to a drink. What are we cheers-ing to?”

Jon flashes her a gap-toothed smile, the one that has worked on every woman and most of the men he’s tried it on in Boston over the past fifteen years. “To meeting beautiful strangers.”

She tips her glass towards his. Her laugh is light and airy and he can see her collarbone moving under her shimmering sleeveless dress. “To meeting beautiful strangers.”

Jon tips his drink back, taking an extra long sip and letting his throat work around it, before dropping the glass to the bar. “So, what brings you to Texas?”

She shrugs, setting her glass down elegantly. Her hands are small, tapering down to painted gold nails that match her dress. “Work. You?”

“Work,” he parrots. “I’m an executive at a real estate company out of Boston. Have you ever been to Boston?”

She shrugs. Her fingers tap at the edge of her glass. “I’ve been to a lot of places.”

“Well,” Jon grins. He can feel his power shimmering under his skin, pushing towards her. “Do you know the new Western Union outpost building on Congress?”

She leans forward. Her lashes brush her cheeks as she blinks up at him. “You built it?”

“My company- well, my father’s company did. Favreau Industries.” Jon leans forward, despite himself. He lets his power loose, sparking along his skin like lightning and sliding into his words, girding them with potency and persuasiveness. “I’m Jon Favreau.”

She holds out her hand. “Emily Black.”

He takes it. Her hand is as small as it looks, but nowhere near as soft. He can feel the callouses along the pad of her palm and the scars across her fingertips. Jon lets his thumb trace along the base of her fingers, massaging gently. “You’re an interesting woman, Ms. Black. Tell me something about yourself.”

“You’ll have to earn that.” Emily shakes her head, downing the rest of her glass. “I need another drink. Next round’s on me.”

“I shouldn’t let you.”

“It wasn’t a question.” Emily shrugs, leaning over the bar and motioning towards the bartender.

She’s an interesting woman, indeed. Jon watches as she holds up two perfect fingers, her dress pulling along her side as she twists to grab the glasses once they’re ready. There’s a plate of limes in front of her and she adds one to Jon’s before she holds it out for him. She doesn’t add one to hers before she holds her glass out to clink his.

“Cheers.” Jon grins, editing his previous toast. “To meeting interesting people.”

“Seconded.” Emily takes a small sip and uncrosses her legs, recrossing them the other way. Jon swallows, wishing her dress left even an inch of her long thighs and delicate calves to the imagination. “So, tell me about yourself, Jon Favreau of Favreau Industries. What sort of work brings you to the great state of Texas?”

“A deal.” Jon feels his back straightening, his chest pressing up and out. His power flashes across his skin and threads into his words. “We’re expanding out of Massachusetts, and my father sent me down here to seal our first deal. Masters Construction is about to make us an offer to work together on building the new Lonestar Gas Company building.”

“You’re awfully sure of yourself.”

Jon takes a long sip, letting his smirk show around the rim of his glass. “I am.”

“I like sure men.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Jon grins. This evening is going even better than he’d imagined it would when his father pulled Jon into his office a month ago and said _you know what an asset you are to me_. _You_ meaning _your power,_ but not even stinging once his father followed it up with _I’m grooming you to take over, and the next step is to send you to Texas_. Jon will travel the country for Favreau Industries if it means he can meet women as interesting as Ms. Black. 

Boston has gotten boring, anyway. He needs something new. He needs someone - or, preferably, someone_s_ \- new.

“So.” Emily sets her drink down on the bar. Her eyes sparkle in the low light of the room as she blinks those beautiful lashes. “Are you going to take me upstairs, or do I have to beg?”

Jon chokes on his drink. He pushes his chair back, tipping the rest of the glass between his lips before slamming it onto the counter. He holds out his arm. “You don’t have to ask twice.”

She giggles, sliding gracefully off her stool and wrapping her fingers around his elbow. Her gold nails look perfect against the navy of his suit. This night - if Jon has anything to say about it, and Jon usually does - is going to be a night to remember.

Jon throws a few bills onto the counter, then lets himself be dragged towards the elevator. It’s been a long time since a woman - since anyone - led _him_. His power doesn’t usually leave space for it. Jon can already feel himself twitch in his pants and he leans forward, closing his eyes and pushing every ounce of his power into his lips as he drops his chin-

Emily giggles, spreading her hand on his chest and pushing him back. “Nuh uh, I’m not that kind of girl.”

Jon blinks, his body thrumming with tension and his mind whirring from the whiplash. “Not, ahh, not that kind of girl?”

Emily grins, twisting her fingers into his tie and, as the elevator beeps, walking backwards and pulling him with her. “At least pour me a drink first.”

“I already bought you a drink.”

“Buy me another one.”

“Ahh,” Jon swallows, his eyes dropping down the pale length of her neck, into the collar of her dress and out again across her bare shoulders. “I can do that.”

She giggles again, bright and warm. “Take me to your room, Jonathan Favreau.”

“Yeah.” Jon swallows, picking up the pace, already digging his room key out of his pocket, the weight of it heavy in his palm. It takes him two tries to get the door open, but then it swings inwards and Jon stumbles inside, pulling her with him with a laugh. “What’s your poison? Gin? Rum? Some of these rooms have bourbon.”

“These rooms don’t have the kind of poison she likes.”

Jon jumps, turning around so quickly that he trips over the soles of his own dress shoes.

“Careful Tommy,” Emily laughs, catching Jon’s elbow and pushing him down to the bed. “You too.”

“Tommy?” Jon repeats slowly, turning to see a man he doesn’t recognize in the chair by the window. The reading light is on, _Brave New World_ open in his lap, and he’s careful to set it aside without bending a page before he stands.

He has a broad chest, with thick shoulders and even thicker arms as he holds out his hand. “Tommy Vietor. Sorry we had to meet under these circumstances.”

“How did you get into my room?” Jon asks, grimacing as Tommy takes his hand and squeezes his fingers, hard. “And what circumstances?”

“You really didn’t suspect,” Emily laughs again, although this time it feels darker, heavier. “Does that routine actually work on many women?”

Jon frowns, turning back to look at her. His vision swims and he thrusts his hand behind him to hold himself steady. “Yes, usually. No, scratch that. It works every time.”

“Right.” Emily pulls the chair out from the desk and sits down, crossing her legs, and Jon kicks himself for noting their elegance, even now. “Interesting fact: did you know that glamour doesn’t work on anyone who knows you’re using it?”

Jon swallows. He didn’t know that, although it explains how his power stopped working on his father when he was about seven years old. How this woman knows about it, though- “Glamour?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Emily sighs. “It’s beneath you.”

“Are you sure about that?” Tommy snorts, his gaze on Emily and not on Jon.

Jon wants to be offended, but the hotel room is starting to blur at the edges of his vision, the colors mixing and hazing. Jon tries to blink it away, but the blurred frame continues to seep down the walls. “You think you know an awful lot about me.”

“Oh, we do.” Emily taps her perfect nails against her perfect knee. “We’ve had a file on you for quite a long time.”

“A file?” Jon repeats, his voice loose and slow. Or his hearing is loose and slow? Jon tries to shake his head, feeling panic rise thick and cool in his throat. “Who _are_ you?”

“How much poison was in the lime?” Tommy asks, his voice sounding very far away.

Emily frowns a little. “Michael does good work. Too good, sometimes. Do you think you can carry him to the carriage?”

_Poison? Carry? _Jon opens his mouth, or, he thinks he’s opening his mouth. No words are coming out and his throat feels dry, _so _dry.

Tommy scoffs. “That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?”

The blurred edges of Jon’s vision are dripping down, down, down until all he can see is a small pinprick of clarity around Emily’s body. He can just see her blink, her long lashes fluttering against her cheeks, as she says, “that’s not the only reason,” and then his world goes black.

***

Darkness.

Darkness so thick that it blankets all of Jon’s senses. He’s hearing the thickness pressing down on his head, smelling the inky nothingness, touching the vastness that stretches endlessly before and behind, above and below him.

“Try not to move,” a voice says, its warmth at once familiar and foreign, like he’s hearing it through the veil of a dream he had too many years ago to remember fully. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“You _poisoned _me,” Jon says, or, at least, he thinks he says. He still can’t be sure that this isn’t all happening in his head. “Your sudden concern for my health isn’t comforting.”

“That’s unfortunate, because my concern is genuine.” The hand is warm on his shoulder, the fingers as familiar as the voice. 

Something … there’s something there, just out of Jon’s reach, if he could only focus through the darkness long enough to grasp onto it. “Do I know you?”

“A long time ago,” the voice smiles, like he’s pleased that Jon remembers. “A lifetime ago for you, Jon, not quite so for me.”

Jon swallows, opening his mouth and letting a stream of darkness seep in. “You know my name.”

“Of course I do.” He chuckles. It’s a warm chuckle, pushing back the fog, just a little, just enough. “It’s not often that a little boy meets one of his own. I have never forgotten the generosity of that turkey leg.”

The warmth spreads, a spot of light digging through the poison in Jon’s mind, widening and opening until-

“_Elijah_,” Jon whispers around the image of that little boy with the warmest eyes and the nimblest fingers and a grin that could enrapture tigers as well as it could Jon. “Elijah.”

“Yeah.” Elijah’s fingers are warm on Jon’s forehead, bigger than they were when he was eight years old, but no less warm and comforting. “You were the kindest boy I’d ever met. What happened to you?”

Jon frowns. The darkness is seeping in again, filling his senses and swallowing him as he whispers, “nothing. Nothing’s happened to me.”

“That’s a shame,” Elijah says, his voice falling further and further away, “because I don’t even want to meet this man you’ve become.”

***

Jon’s throat is dry. Jon’s throat is dry and his head is pounding and his eyes are heavy. Jon’s throat is dry and his head is pounding and his eyes are heavy and he’s hot and it’s too quiet, much too quiet.

He tries to sit up, his arms weak and the mattress - if he can even call it that - rough and unstable under him.

He doesn’t know where he is. The last thing he remembers is … darkness, a voice so familiar it reminded him of- 

No, that’s not right. His hotel room, in Dallas, with its velvet curtains and turned down sheets and a woman with perfect legs in a perfect dress who laughed at him and who- 

Fuck, the woman who poisoned him with that fucking lime. 

“Oh you’re awake,” a voice says. He feels a small, calloused hand on his arm. Emily’s? “And just as stupid as Emily warned me you were.”

Jon’s arm gives way and he lies back down with an _oomph._ Not Emily then. His throat feels scratchy as he forces out a rough, “where am I?”

“Austin,” she says. She lifts a straw to his mouth and he drinks until he’s slurping at the bottom of an empty glass. “Michael warned us that dehydration was a side effect. We’re all out of clean water but-”

She raises the straw to his lips again and he takes a long, grateful draw and gasps, his eyes watering as it burns down his throat. He blinks his eyes open past the crusted heaviness and gasps, “what the fuck is that?”

“Moonshine. Michael’s a magician, he made it himself. We never went dry even during the darkest days of prohibition.”

Jon struggles into a sitting position again, more carefully this time. He leans against the wall for support and reaches out, taking the cloudy glass from her hands and drinking a much more measured sip. “It tastes like piss.”

The woman - young, with dark skin and even darker hair pulled back away from her face - laughs. “Sometimes, I think it is.”

Jon splutters, the moonshine stinging his lips and fingers.

She continues. “But Michael swears it isn’t.”

“This is the same Michael who poisoned me?” Jon asks.

She nods, leaning forward to hand him a cloth and pushing into the small circle of light. Her eyes are white, as milky as the moonshine, and Jon rears back quickly.

“Apologies.” She freezes, but doesn’t move back. “I forget how I look sometimes. Here, clean off your face, it’ll help.”

Jon takes the cloth reluctantly and dabs at the crust built up under his eyes. He feels like he’s slept a week. Which, he thinks bitterly, maybe he has. “How-?”

“Could I see your reaction?” She shrugs, leaning back, out of the light. She folds her gloved hands in her lap. “I can feel people. It’s my gift. Or it’s my curse. It’s all a matter of perspective.”

“A lot of that going around,” Jon grumbles to himself, reaching for the moonshine again. He takes a slow sip and hides his cough in the cloth. 

She smiles softly, her face turned towards the cloth knowingly as she graciously changes the subject. “I’m sorry we had to take you the way we did, but we weren’t sure you’d have come with us if we asked nicely.”

“I wouldn’t have.” Jon takes another sip. “And who is ‘we’?”

“We work for the Batty Brothers Circus,” she says by way of an answer. She laughs fondly as she says it.

Jon frowns. _Batty Brothers_. Jon’s heard that name before. Again, he feels that crushing weight of familiarity he’d felt when he’d first woken up, but he can’t place it.

“I’m Tanya, by the way.” She interrupts his thoughts, holding out a gloved hand without leaning forward into the light.

Jon takes it. The leather is cracked and worn under his fingers. “Jon.”

“I know.” Tanya laughs again, light and tinkling as crystal. “We’ve been following you for a long time.”

Jon’s arm shakes a little with the weight of holding himself up and he can feel his hackles rising tiredly. “That’s what Emily and that other guy-”

“Tommy.”

“Right, Tommy. They said that, right before they kidnapped me.”

“Kidnapping.” Tanya snorts. “That’s one way to think of it.”

Jon raises an eyebrow. “What’s another?”

“They saved your life.” 

Jon scoffs. “My life doesn’t need saving.”

“Like I said, we’ve been watching you for a long time,” Tanya shrugs. Her shoulders are strong and thin under her loose linen tunic. “And we’re not the only ones. Someone knows about your power and put a bounty on your head.”

“Impossible.” Jon shakes his head. “I’ve been careful.”

Tanya snorts. “According to Emily, you weren’t being all that careful.”

Jon’s cheeks heat as he remembers the way Emily had looked at the end of the bar, about how sure he had been of the tilt of her smile and the brightness in her eyes. He feels so foolish now. “So what if there is a bounty?”

“So,” Tanya says, slowly, like she’s waiting for him to catch up, “if we hadn’t saved you, you’d be waking up in much worse circumstances right about now.”

“Like my incredibly nice and exorbitantly expensive hotel room?” Jon scoffs.

“Like in a jail cell,” Tanya corrects. “You have a gift, Jon. There are people who won’t stop at anything to get access to it.”

“Like poison me,” Jon supplies.

Tanya shrugs. “You’re free to go anytime, but, if I were you, I’d take advantage of the bed and the moonshine and my sparkling company for as long as you can.”

“Well,” Jon frowns, “good thing you’re not me, then.”

“Yes, that is a good thing,” Tanya laughs. She leans forward, the whites of her eyes gleaming in the low light as she takes the glass from him and pushes his shoulder back down to the pillows. “Rest, it’ll take about another hour for the full effects of the paralysis to wear off. Then our ringleader will be by to give you a tour.”

Jon opens his mouth to argue again, but his eyes are already growing heavy and he’s asleep before he can get the words out.

***

“We’re a smaller operation than Barnum and Bailey or the Ringling Brothers,” Dan explains as they step out of Tanya’s wagon and into the warm early spring morning. “But we’re still a force to be reckoned with. A couple dozen acts, a menagerie, a museum, all under one tent. We’re good - the best, really - and people pay to come see our show in droves.”

Jon nods, more focused on the weakness in his thighs than in Dan’s explanation. According to Tanya, he was only out for a day, but his muscles feel like he was dragged behind the wagons for a week at least. “That’s nice for you. It sounds very profitable.”

“I’m the ringleader,” Dan continues, as if Jon hadn’t said anything at all.

Jon eyes him. He’s wearing a loose knit shirt, open halfway down his chest, and even looser linen pants. Every inch of skin Jon can see is covered in tattoos, twisted together in a range of colors that look like they’re moving if Dan stands in the right light. Jon motions at the set of elephants on Dan’s collarbone. “You’re not in the freak show?”

“Sometimes.” Dan shrugs the word off like it doesn’t mean anything at all to him, like it hadn’t twisted off Jon’s tongue like the dagger his father had armed him with. Like Jon hadn’t meant to wound him with the only weapon he has. “But mostly I’m in the ring.”

Jon frowns and pushes. He feels vulnerable under an unfamiliar sun, with the warnings of a kidnapping in his ears and the reality of a poisoning standing in front of him with more self-confidence and self-awareness than Jon has ever felt. Jon wants to hurt him, wants, at the very least, to level the playing field between them. “I can’t imagine that goes down well here in Texas.”

Dan shrugs, stepping over a clump of grass without looking down. “Do you know what Walt Whitman said about the circus?”

Jon sighs in exasperation. “Let’s pretend that I don’t.”

“’A circus performer is the other half of a college professor. The perfect man has more than the professor’s brains and a good deal of the performer’s legs,’” Dan quotes.

“Are you saying you’re the perfect man?” Jon arches an eyebrow.

“He’s saying,” another man says, jogging up to fall into step beside them. His face is painted white with an exaggerated red smile and two maroon dots on his cheeks, “that even Southerners will pay to see men and women break the laws of physics, right, Dan?”

Dan snorts. “Your eyebrows are running, and you’re running late.”

“Yeah, yeah.” The man pulls the handkerchief out of Dan’s back pocket and dabs at his thin eyebrow lines, cocked just right to look confused at all times. “There were more children in the shanties than I’d expected. I handed out more than my allotted free tickets, too. Do you think the boss will be mad?”

“Yes,” Dan says, easily. “But I won’t be the one to tell him.”

The clown grins, loose and easy, before turning on Jon. “And you must be the new guy. Glamour, right? Jon Lovett, resident magician, part-time clown.”

“Jon Favreau.” Jon holds out his hand, grimacing as Lovett leaves splotches of white makeup on Jon’s fingers. “Does everyone around here know about my power?”

“Pretty much.” Lovett drops the handkerchief from his eyebrow. “This is hopeless, Em’s going to make me start over again anyway.”

Dan shakes his head, pushing the stained handkerchief back into Lovett’s hands. “Keep it.”

Lovett nods, folding it and shoving it into his pocket with no concern for the makeup or his pants or, apparently, the validity of Jon’s greatest secret, as he turns back to Jon’s question. “That’s why we’re all here, right? To hide in plain sight.”

“Ahh.” Jon frowns as they stop outside a series of smaller canvas tents. “I’m here because I was drugged and kidnapped against my will.”

Lovett waggles his real eyebrows, which does nothing to waggle his fake, melting eyebrows. “That’s the fun way of getting here.”

Jon raises his actual eyebrows pointedly. “What’s the not-fun way of getting here?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Honestly?” Jon asks, stepping through the canvas tent flap Dan holds open for them. “I’m not sure. Would I?”

“I can’t answer that for you.” Lovett laughs, ducking through after him. “But you might wanna figure it out before the big show.”

Jon frowns at him. “What does it matter? I’m not a part of it.”

“Oh.” Lovett looks between them, taking a small step towards Dan, his smile slipping just a little under his thick red lipstick. “Dan hasn’t told you yet.”

“I was getting to that,” Dan sighs, turning down the small tent hallway and into a large, open, swelteringly hot room. “You interrupted us.”

“Should have expected that,” Lovett shrugs, stepping past him and jogging into the room, already calling, “Em, I need your eyebrow expertise.”

“I should have,” Dan mutters under his breath, before turning to Jon. “The boss wants me to train you, for as long as you’re here.”

Jon frowns, half his mind following Lovett’s voice towards Emily’s name and the other half still stuck on Lovett’s question. “Train me for what?”

“To help me out, share ringleader duties,” Dan says, easily, without catching his eyes. “Glamour’s a pretty good skill for an MC, don’t you think?”

“Don’t I-?” Jon repeats, incredulously. His thighs are still shaking with his forced day of immobility and his mind is reeling with everything he’s learned. He’s been _watched, _for years, by some unknown and supposedly hostile force. Or so says the _other _unknown and supposedly friendly force of circus performers who _poisoned and kidnapped him_ from his first almost-successful solo real estate deal. 

And, fuck, Jon hasn’t even thought about his father and his father’s company and his father’s temper since he woke up which is- Which doesn’t matter. Tanya and Dan are as unreliable a narrator Jon as has ever encountered, and Jon has no inkling to trust a word they say. Except- 

Except when Jon closes his eyes, he can still remember the weight of darkness all around him, pressing against his chest and sliding through his ears, terrifying and dangerous and yet neither of those things because Jon had felt enveloped by an achingly familiar warmth. Jon had felt, for just the smallest, barely memorable moment, like he was where he was always supposed to be. He’s only felt like that one other time, when he was eight years old with turkey gravy dripping down his fingers and a tiger’s breath in his ear, before his father had pinched that same ear and dragged him bodily into the life Jon was born into.

Jon shakes his head, pushing that eight year old boy away with the memory of the darkness, and reaches for the one thing he can be absolutely sure Dan is wrong about. “I think that you could all learn a little more discretion. Scratch that, a lot more discretion. Unless you like the idea of being captured by black ops and spending the rest of your days as a federal lab rat.”

“I’ve considered it,” Dan shrugs, taking a step into the room. “But like Lovett said, what better place to hide your powers than in a circus? Just think about it.”

“You’re not listening to me. I don’t need to think-” Jon starts, sighing in exasperation as he follows Dan into the room. He freezes, body and words, as he’s greeted by high pitched squeals and the sound of a slap against cloth. Jon peers through his fingers just in time to see Emily, dressed in tights and short sequined shorts and nothing else, hit Dan’s shoulder.

“Warn a woman,” she glares, covering her breasts with her arm, but not before Jon gets a good look at them. They’re exactly how he’d imagined they’d be in that bar in Dallas, small and round, with perfect pink nipples centered in pale, creamy skin. _Poison_, Jon repeats, like a mantra, trying to paste the word over the long lengths of her bare skin. But somehow the threat of danger only makes her more beautiful.

“Sorry.” Dan shrugs, sheepishly, leaning down to kiss the side of her mouth. “Forgot we were in mixed company.”

She sighs, turning back to her dressing table to grab her robe and throw it over her shoulders. She ties it around her waist with a flourish. “He’s been picturing me naked for days. Now I need to find new leverage.”

Dan catches Jon’s eye. “I don’t think that’ll be a problem.”

Jon flushes and looks away. His knees feel weaker than they did just on the other side of these tent walls - damn poison - and he drops his hand from his eyes to steady them. Which turns out to be a mistake, as he drops his hand and catches sight of the other two women in the room. The first he recognizes - Tanya, dressed in the same tights, sequined shorts, and robe that Emily is - and another young woman, with dark skin peeking out of a pair of harem pants. They’re patterned with flames and a drop-crotch, meant to attract and impress, if only Jon could look away from her bare chest and soft, dusky nipples.

Emily sighs, tossing a robe towards her. “Stop showing off and put this on.”

Jon shakes himself as she holds up her arm, her breasts shaking as she catches the robe. She winks at Emily. “Can you blame me? With eyes like that. Besides, what did that reporter say? Oh, right, we’re savages.” She holds up her fingers to make quotes. “‘African devils bewitching crowds with their immoral sensuality.’ Might as well lean into it.”

“You’re not even African,” Tanya snorts. “Put on the robe and finish getting ready. It’s thirty minutes to showtime and you know how the boss gets if we’re late.”

“And stop reading the newspaper,” Dan sighs, leaning back against Tanya’s dressing table, his arms crossed against his chest. The cuffs of his shirt pull up and Jon can see a cobra twisting angrily around his wrist that Jon swears he didn’t see there earlier. “Nothing good can come of it.”

“Nothing good,” Tanya rolls her milky eyes. Jon shivers and finally looks away. “Like educating ourselves. No reason we should do that.”

“Not what I meant,” Dan sighs.

“Besides,” Lovett grins from Emily’s chair. He holds up a tube of mascara and hands it to her. “You can learn everything you need from my song. I was thinking of addressing Hoovervilles tonight.”

“No,” four voices chorus.

Lovett frowns. A small, golden dog jumps into his lap and he twists his fingers into her fur. “You should have seen it today. Children, living in such abject poverty-”

“I know,” Emily says, softly. She slides her fingers under his chin, tilting his head upwards as she steps between his knees, the mascara poised in her hands. “But you know how dangerous it is.”

Lovett sighs. “Be political, but not _too_ political.”

“Exactly.”

“What kind of clown does that make me?”

“The kind that’s still alive,” Tanya says, heavily.

Lovett scowls at her, until Emily tightens her fingers and tilts his chin in the other direction, away from Jon’s view. 

Dan sighs, pushing off from Tanya’s dressing table, squeezing her shoulder and then Lovett’s as he steps past them. “I’m going to take Jon to the storage wagon, I think we can spare it for a little while. I’ll be back before the show starts.”

Emily tilts her head and Dan kisses her quickly, before stepping past them and motioning for Jon to follow him. Jon’s reeling, from the flashes of affection, from the easy nudity, from _savages_, from the political ramifications of Lovett’s scowl, from the fact that everyone in this fucking circus troupe seems to know the one thing Jon has kept close and secret every day of his god damn life.

He doesn’t realize they’ve even left the tent until Dan stops them in front of the oldest wagon on the lot. The wood is rotting at the corners and the paint is faded and peeling. “It’s not much,” Dan shrugs. “But you can do something with it. We put a cot and a few things we could spare inside. We have a show this afternoon and then we’re packing up for San Antonio, but if you want to start your training-”

“I don’t want to train with you,” Jon spits, his shoulders folding inwards, around the barriers he’s struggling to erect around his chest. “I don’t want any part of your degenerate troupe of circus freaks.”

If he’d expected Dan to flinch more than he had the first time Jon used that word, he doesn’t. He just shrugs, like he’d never expected anything better of Jon. “We roll into San Antonio at 6am. Report to post duty when we get there.”

“What’s post duty?”

“Don’t worry,” is all Dan says, “it’ll keep you far away from the troupe.”

***


	3. San Antonio to Houston

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone's staying safe and healthy, both mentally and physically, and that this ridiculous fic might help provide _some_ little bit of entertainment during self-quarantine.

Six a.m. is early. Six a.m. feels even earlier when the wagons have been moving since midnight and Jon has jostled and jolted with each creaky turn. Jon figures he could get used to sleeping while bumping through muddy roads someday, but preferably he won’t have to. He doesn’t plan on staying here that long.

“Here.” The shift director hands Jon a pair of oversized leather work gloves. “You’re going to want them.”

Post duty, it turns out, is exactly as it sounds. The giant canvas circus tent is held up by thick rope and thousands of stakes hammered into the ground by Jon and a crew of maybe a dozen others. 

An hour in, Jon’s hands are aching. Two hours in, Jon’s hands are torn and tattered even under the leather gloves. Three hours in, Jon can feel the sun beating down on the back of his neck and every slam of his hammer rattles through his arms like thunder.

Another hour in and Jon drops his hammer where he stands and walks off the field and directly into the medical tent, ignoring the calls and whistles from the shift director and his crew.

“Fix me,” he says, sitting on an empty cot and holding his hands out miserably. They’re red and blistered, the skin split and sticking to the remnants of the stupid gloves he’s only now realizing may have been a prank.

The room is empty except for a man, about Jon’s age, dressed in a linen button-up and a pair of loose grey trousers that have seen better days. He’s bent over a cot two down from Jon’s and, when he turns, his smile is friendly. “I’ll be right with you, just got to fix up this idiot first.”

“Hey.” A woman frowns, pushing up on one hand so she can flick his ear with her other. “You should be nice to me.”

She’s wearing denim overalls, cut off at the knee, with the straps dangling loose around her waist. Her oversized shirt hangs past her fingers and gapes around her neck, but Jon can still picture what she looked like yesterday, in her harem pants and absolutely nothing else. He smiles at her. “I remember you.”

She giggles into her wrist, her long hair falling around her ears. “Glad to know I made an impression.”

“Priyanka,” the man warns, glancing between her and Jon.

“What’s a little nudity between circus performers?” The woman - Priyanka, apparently - shrugs, grinning wide. “I’m Pri, by the way.”

“He’s not a performer,” the man grumbles, reaching for a roll of gauze and holding Pri’s knee steady. “Turned down the offer in exchange for post duty and can’t even do that, it seems.”

Jon frowns down at his shredded hands, held trembling and open in his lap. “I hurt myself.”

“Yeah,” Pri winks at Jon. “He hurt himself. You should really help him, Michael, I’m fine.”

Jon raises an eyebrow. “_Michael_?”

“You are not fine,” Michael sighs. His fingers linger on the inside of Pri’s knee as he pushes up the hem of her overalls to reach her thigh. “You fell. Again. Someday you’re going to really hurt yourself and we’re all going to be in for a shit load of trouble.”

“I was practicing.” Pri rolls her eyes, but her knuckles are white where she’s grasping the edge of the cot.

“For an act you’ll never do.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do know that. You know how I know?” He tears the gauze with his teeth and ties it off.

Pri sighs, leaning back on her elbows. Her voice is light as she counters his argument before he can even make it, as if they’ve had this discussion many, many times before. “People do acts without having powers. In fact, people do acts without powers in every other circus in the country.”

“And abroad,” Michael nods in agreement. “But you don’t have to, so stick to what you’re good at and my heart might make it another few years, okay?”

“You’re so dramatic,” Pri sighs, but, Jon notes, doesn’t disagree.

“That’s my job,” Michael shrugs, patting her knee, before sliding his chair over to Jon’s cot. “Now, what can I do for you?”

“You’re Michael?” Jon repeats, flicking a look at Pri, then back to Michael. “You’re the one who poisoned me.”

“No.” Michael shakes his head. His eyes are dark and his breath is warm as he takes one of Jon’s hands and pulls it close to him. “Technically, I made the poison. Emily’s the one who poisoned you.”

Jon frowns. “You knew what she was going to do with it.”

“Not necessarily.” Pri stretches her knee carefully and looks over at Jon. Her cheeks are a little flushed and Jon wishes he could look at her without imagining the shape of her breasts under her shirt. “Emily’s a rogue agent sometimes.”

“A lot of the time,” Michael snorts. He drops Jon’s hand with, Jon thinks, more force than necessary, and crosses to grab a basin of soap and water from the side table.

“And was she this time?” Jon pushes.

“No, this time I knew what she was doing,” Michael sighs, bringing the basin to sit between Jon’s knees. He takes Jon’s first hand and peels off the glove. It burns and pulls, sending shoots of fire up Jon’s gummy arms and into his cheek. He doesn’t hold back his wince, but Michael doesn’t even pause. “But the end justifies the means, yeah?”

“Sure.” Jon bites his lip as Michael picks at a particularly bad spot. “If I trusted your ends, but, as of yet it seems like you were just angling for free labor.”

Michael snorts and nods towards Jon’s hand. “We botched that goal.”

Pri glares at him, then turns to grin at Jon. “Oh, we’ll pay you. Everyone at Batty Brothers gets paid exactly what he or she is worth, based on the job they perform and nothing else.”

Jon meets her grin with curiosity. “And how much am I worth?”

“A third of a shift on post duty?” Michael shrugs. “A penny. Two if the foreman is feeling generous.”

Jon sighs in exasperation, motioning with his tattered hands. “I got _injured_.”

“This?” Michael snorts, reaching for Jon’s hand again. “This is nothing.”

The leather finally comes free of Jon’s right hand and Michael ducks it in the water. Jon cries out as the soap bubbles into the cuts and scrapes. “Nothing?” He grits out.

“You’ve got weak city hands,” Michael shrugs. “You’ll toughen up.”

“Or,” Pri shrugs, sliding to the edge of her bed and rocking her knee tentatively, “you can work with Dan and your precious hands will stay intact.”

“This was your plan,” Jon accuses, narrowing his eyes. “Fuck up my hands so I won’t have a choice but to train for MC."

“Our plan-” Michael rolls his eyes, turning to work on Jon’s other hand- “was to save your life. Excuse us for asking for a little of your labor while you’re eating our food and living in our wagons.”

Jon hisses as Michael drops Jon’s left hand in the water to join his right. “If I’m such a burden, why don’t you just let me go?”

Pri slides off the cot gingerly and bends her knee with a frown. “You could always run away and brave whatever evil force is trying to capture you.”

“Pri,” Michael warns. “Don’t you have someplace to be?”

Pri shrugs. “Not really.”

Michael sighs and grabs a towel. He spreads it over Jon’s knees and takes his hands carefully out of the basin. He dries them with what Jon has to assume Michael thinks is gentle care, but scratches and pulls and burns against the raw sores. “Your life’s still in danger.”

Jon sighs. His head feels heavy and his hands are screaming at him and he really wishes he’d had at least half a night’s sleep. Maybe Michael would poison him again, if he asked very nicely. “Why? How? Who _are_ you all?”

Michael finishes drying Jon’s hands and pulls back. “You’re all set.”

“That’s it?” Jon looks down at his hands. His palms are clean of leather, but they’re still red and sore and not all that clean looking. “Shouldn’t you give me some medicine or something?”

Michael snorts. “Best medicine I can suggest for those can be found at the bar.”

Jon’s eyes narrow. “You’re a quack.”

“He’s actually the best doctor around. He’s a wizard with chemicals, liquid or otherwise.” Pri steps gingerly onto her knee and shrugs, taking another easy step towards them. “I can take you to the bar.”

“The same man who makes the poison?” Jon sighs. “Figures. You’re all mad, you know that?”

“Yeah.” Pri grins, stopping in front of him. “Means he’s pretty damn good with the hooch too. Are you coming or not?”

***

“Drinking alone is a sign of alcoholism.”

Jon sighs into his glass of the, he has to admit, best bathtub gin he’s ever had. “Did you come here to chastise me too?”

“Nah.” Lovett pulls himself onto the stool next to Jon and waves for the bartender. “I’m looking for a sane voice around here.”

Jon snorts. This is his third glass since Pri dumped him in this seat and left him to do- whatever it is that circus performers do on a sore knee. “If I’m your voice of reason, you’re in trouble.”

“Don’t I know it,” Lovett sighs deeply. He takes his glass with an easy “thank you, Elisa,” before turning back to Jon. “What do you know about Hoovervilles?”

Jon shrugs. “Two years ago, the homeless tried to build one on my father’s land in Boston. Down by the harbor-”

“So that they could have drinking water and grow crops,” Lovett nods.

Jon scrunches his nose. “No one would wanna drink that water. It’s disgusting.”

“Might not want to,” Lovett shrugs, “but might have to. Dirty water is better than no water.”

Jon swirls his gin and takes a long swig. “Why are we talking about this? There’s plenty of purified drinking water here.”

“There’s not plenty,” Lovett frowns. “And what we have we’ve purified ourselves. Takes three of us just to keep the elephants hydrated. But, that’s not why I brought it up.”

“No?” Jon raises an eyebrow and shakes his glass for Elisa to refill. “Then why?”

“Because houses in these shanty towns are made out of cardboard. Which, fine, in Texas that might work if you forget the dust bowls, but in Boston?” Lovett shakes his head. “Cardboard homes and paper plate shoes and newspaper blankets do little to keep out those nor’easters.”

Jon shivers, remembering the howling winds and the blasts of ice and sleet and snow tumbling from the sky. Elisa refills his glass and Jon smiles at her, a little more gracious than he’d been last round. “That’s horrendous. People live like that?”

“Unemployment’s at 25%. They don’t have much choice.”

Jon’s chest aches and he nods, slowly. He’d never thought much about the people down by the docks, not beyond his father’s grumblings about trespassing and squatters’ rights. “So, what? You want me to talk to my father about it when I get out of here?”

Lovett frowns at him, speaking slow, as if Jon’s too stupid to pick it up otherwise. “I’m bringing it up because I want to incorporate it into my act.”

Jon raises an eyebrow. “You’re a clown.”

“A clown’s job is to speak truth to power. Haven’t you ever read King Lear?”

“Yes,” Jon says, slowly, trying to remember anything he learned in his college literature courses. “But you’re supposed to be funny.”

“Oh, it’ll be funny.”

“Cardboard houses and newspaper blankets? Let’s see it.”

“Yeah?” Lovett pushes back his chair, leaving his drink half finished on the counter. His cheeks are a little flushed and he wipes his palms on his thighs as he warns, “it’s a work in progress.”

“Stop justifying it and show me.”

“Yeah.” Lovett swallows. “Yeah, okay.”

He bends his knees the way, Jon imagines, he does when he’s in the ring. Jon tries to picture this routine with the bright red nose and painted white makeup from the day before, but as Lovett dives into his song about Hoovervilles, Jon forgets everything but the flush on Lovett’s face and the way his long fingers move when he talks. The song is _funny_, funnier than Jon ever thought possible, as Lovett teeters through a line about the _New York Post_ and a joke about the Wrigley family. His voice gets stronger as he rhymes _cardboard _with _billboard _and _dignity_ with _sympathy_ and he leans into it, the jokes all the funnier for being slightly off pitch.

Lovett trails off towards the end, shrugging and reaching for his stool. “It needs an ending, obviously.”

“Lovett,” Jon breathes. His eyes are wet from laughter and empathy and every emotion in-between. “That was brilliant.”

“Yeah?” Lovett ducks his head, looking at Jon from under his long, dark eyelashes. “It works?”

“It’s incredible.” Jon leans forward, wrapping his fingers around his glass to keep himself from wrapping them around Lovett’s knee. He puts the full weight of his power behind the words like, maybe, he can convince Lovett of what Jon himself knows, until Emily’s voice rings through his mind, _glamour doesn’t work on anyone who knows you’re using it_. Jon swallows, and tries to express everything linguistically that he’d normally express persuasively. “You really got through to me and if you can get to me, you can get to anyone.”

Lovett snorts. “You’re the only one who thinks so.”

“I don’t believe that.”

Lovett sighs, adopting an accent that, Jon assumes, is supposed to imitate Dan. “‘You’ll get all of San Antonio booing and chanting us out of town.’”

Jon shrugs. “Then don’t do it in San Antonio.”

“‘You’re taking unnecessary risks,’” Lovett parrots, adopting another accent.

“Emily?” Jon guess.

“Yeah.” Lovett sighs. “Maybe when we get further North.”

Jon frowns. “But people need to hear it, here. Hoovervilles aren’t limited to the North.”

Lovett raises an eyebrow, his cheeks glowing as he chuckles. “I’ve converted a monster.”

Jon shrugs, turning back to his glass as he admits, “I’m all in, usually, once I believe in something.”

“And that-” Lovett swallows- “that silly song convinced you?”

“It wasn’t silly.” Jon frowns deeply. “It was brilliant.”

“Well.” Lovett waves at Elisa to refill both their glasses. “There might be something to you after all, Jon Favreau. You’re full of surprises.”

Elisa splashes gin into Jon’s glass and across his fingers. Jon licks at them thoughtfully. “You don’t know me. How can I surprise you?”

“I know plenty about you,” Lovett shrugs. “You’re thirty-two years old. Born in Boston. Never wanted for a thing.”

Jon frowns. “Hey.”

“You have a gift,” Lovett continues as if Jon hadn’t interrupted him. “But you don’t understand the full potential of your power. You think that shilling for real estate deals is the best you’ll ever do.”

“My father-”

“And,” Lovett continues, unabated, “you’re desperate for your father’s affection and seemingly unaware of the efforts your mother has gone to keep you from it. Your name is in the Favreau Industry bylaws and, someday, you will be a very rich man, but not a very smart one. Have I missed anything?”

Jon swallows, “how do you know all that?” and tacks on, “you’re wrong, of course,” quickly.

“Of course,” Lovett agrees. He raises his glass and downs it quickly. “We’ve been following you for a long time, Jon. The sooner you realize we’re on your side, the better off we’ll all be.”

“What does that mean?”

Lovett shrugs, dropping his glass to the counter. “I’ve got a show in thirty minutes. It was surprisingly nice talking to you.”

“Yeah,” Jon says, slowly, his mouth dry. Lovett’s gone before he can add, sincerely, “you, too.”

***

Houston is sweltering. 

Jon spends two days convalescing in his wagon, nursing his aching hands and hoarding cool air, before the smell of beans and corn pull him out from under his scratchy sheets. He turns on a low lamp, already regretting his growling stomach as he digs through the trunks of old costumes stacked in the back of his storage wagon-turned-guesthouse. He grabs the first clean-ish shirt he can find and tears it into uneven strips for makeshift bandages.

His own shirt isn’t nearly as clean. He grimaces as he pulls it on over the dress pants he’d been wearing when he was kidnapped - “Oh, that?” Emily had shrugged when he’d asked after his suitcase. “You don’t need any of that, we left it in Dallas” - and steps out into the late afternoon sun, already blinking blearily.

The circus bursts to life around him the moment he leaves the cocoon of his wagon. Workers yelling and cajoling from their spots on hay and water barrels, lounging after a hard day’s work. Tigers and elephants and large tropical birds, some tied and some not, screeching and roaring and barking as they wait their turn in the ring. Clattering and banging and chattering from inside the Big Top. 

As Jon steps into the sound and commotion of it, he feels slow and sluggish. If he didn’t now know exactly what it feels like to be poisoned, he’d entertain the thought that Michael had slipped something into the water he’s been leaving outside of Jon’s wagon.

Food, Jon reminds himself, turning his feet towards the cook tent. It’s mercifully empty, or nearly at least, and Jon crosses directly to the best smelling station. His stomach growls as he orders, “corn, please, and a bowl of beans if you’ve got it.”

The cook nods, handing over a small paper bowl of beans, two ears of corn crossed over the top. “There’s salt on the table.”

“Don’t use too much of it,” Michael calls, breaking Jon’s small bubble of quiet and waving him over. “Salt can kill you. If the booze or the high wire don’t get you first.”

“Or the heat,” Jon offers, rueing the loss of his quiet as he climbs onto the bench opposite Michael. He drops his bowl to the table, his stomach growling audibly.

Michael raises an eyebrow as he pushes a salt shaker towards Jon. “Fasting is a long game form of protest. Too bad it hurts you an awful lot more than it hurts us.”

Jon dumps half the shaker onto his beans. “Even I’m not that much of a masochist.”

“That’s too bad.” Michael shrugs, his eyes dancing with amusement and something a little too close to truth.

“Wait,” Jon smirks, “really?”

Michael shrugs again, his shoulders strong and controlled under his loose medical tunic, all coiled energy that, Jon realizes with a sudden and not entirely unwelcome jolt, could overwhelm him if Michael chose to. 

Michael just reaches out, though, taking Jon’s right hand in his and laughing as Jon jumps. His hand shakes as Michael takes Jon’s fingers in his, unwrapping the bandage slowly.

“You wrapped these yourself,” Michael doesn’t ask. He presses on the sorest spots, the ones still red and not yet scabbing, and bends Jon’s fingers experimentally. “You’re healing nicely. Leave them out in the open, the air will help them form calluses.”

Jon frowns. “They won’t get dirty?”

Michael shrugs. “It might, but, I’m more worried about your loss of dexterity than infection. Your power works through writing too, doesn’t it?”

Jon pulls his hand back quickly. The electricity sizzling between them turns dark and dangerous, and his father’s warning that _evil men will want to use you_ comes slamming back to him. He has no desire to start schilling for the Batty Brothers circus, churning out marketing posters and newspaper ads for pennies on the dollar. He changes the subject quickly. “You’re not in the ring this afternoon?”

Michael’s brow creases, like he’s feeling the change in Jon’s energy even without Jon’s power, and he turns back to his own bowl. “What act would I do?”

Jon shrugs and adopts an exaggerated MC voice. “In front of me are three bottles. One will make you cluck like a chicken, one will make you laugh for three hours, one is poison. Step right up, make your choice.”

Michael rolls his eyes. “We save our poison for special occasions.”

“Oh.” Jon forces a smile, but it feels more like a sneer. “I’m special, then.”

Michael sighs, dropping his spoon into his bowl. “Some of us seem to think so. Jury’s still out, as far as I’m concerned.”

“That’s-”

“More than you deserve, I know.”

“Not what I was going to say.” Jon sighs. “So, if you don’t want to poison your audience, what do you do during the show?”

Michael motions around the tent. “I wait here. And I eat as much as I can. I never know how long it’ll be until I can eat again, after.”

The hairs on the back of Jon’s neck rise. “Wait for what?”

“For something to happen.”

“Like-” Jon starts, but Michael’s already pushing to his feet. Three young women, dressed in tights and glittering bikinis, rush in behind Jon, motioning for Michael to follow.

“Like a man falling off the highwire,” Michael says, quickly, stepping around Jon and following the performers. Jon leaves what’s left of his beans and corn on the table, tripping over the bench as he races after Michael’s heels.

Jon gets to the edge of the Big Top before he loses them in the crush of the crowd. He cranes his neck, swearing when he can’t find Michael’s dark head amongst the audience. With a sigh, he opens the edges of the canvas tent, peering inside with trepidation, fear, and excitement. 

It’s not that Jon’s been avoiding the tent although, yes, yes it’s exactly like he’s been avoiding the tent and all the memories he’s absolutely certain it will drudge up. 

Jon had been right to stay away. Just the feel of the canvas under his fingertips brings back a wash of memories and feelings. Memories of a time when the edges of his future had been hazy with wonder and hope, before it had coalesced, clear and terrible, into the present his father had wanted for him all along. The moment Jon opens the flap and peers inside the tent, he’s drawn into a world outside of time and physics and the expectations of a father and a company and a legacy. 

As Jon steps forward, his chest aching with anticipation and his throat choked with possibility, all thoughts of the injured high wire man are replaced with the vision of the women in the center of the ring. She’s balancing on a wooden board, itself balanced on top of two large wooden balls, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. She’s backed by three tigers, full grown and baring their teeth, all growling behind thick iron rings that Jon can’t imagine are doing much of anything to hold them back. But it’s the fire streaming from her mouth that’s drawing _ooh_s and _ahhs_ from the crowd.

As Jon watches, the woman turns in his direction and Jon recognizes the heat in her eyes and the ginger way she bends her knee under her fire-embroidered harem pants. Priyanka looks like she belongs in the ring, drawing the crowd in with a series of physics-breaking tricks. The crowd exclaims as one as she blows fire out of her mouth in a series of swirls and spirals. The crowd holds its breath as she pulls the flame back in, then rounds her lips and steadies her stance and blows the flames out again in large rings that float behind her and light the tiger rings aflame. The crowd erupts as she grins and twists her lips again, creating the grand finale of elephant-shaped flames emanating from her mouth and floating over the crowd.

Only then does she reach behind her back, drawing a sword from its hidden sheath in her waistband. It’s as long as her forearm and thin enough to cut diamond. She demonstrates, whipping the sword through the air with a _whoosh_ before cutting through the wooden board she’s been balancing on. She somersaults, landing a little gracelessly on her bad knee, but the crowd doesn’t notice. Especially not as she breathes out another rush of fire, before taking it back inside her throat and chasing the flames with the tip of the sword. Down, down, down, until she’s swallowed it to the hilt.

The crowd hushes, an eerie silence falling over thousands of rowdy circus goers. Jon holds his breath with them, his knuckles white against the tent flap he’s still holding open, thighs bunched and ready to spring forward to- 

Well, Jon’s not entirely sure what he’d do. Call for Michael. Use his power to convince the crowd that it was all a stunt and not proof of magic. Pull the sword out with his sore and scabbed hands if he has to, maybe.

He doesn’t, of course.

Pri grins around the hilt, grabbing it with both her hands and pulling it out in one go. She takes an exaggerated bow as the crowd erupts, sound whooshing back into the Big Top so quickly that Jon’s head rushes.

Jon lets out a breath, trying to keep his head from swimming.

“What were you going to do from here?” A voice asks, riddled through with laughter. He jumps a foot in the air, his thighs still poised for something a lot less embarrassing. She laughs again, at him, not with him.

“Ahh.” Jon rubs the back of his neck, turning to frown at her. She looks slightly familiar, dressed in the same loose tunic Pri was wearing the day before, tied by a thick belt embroidered with moons and stars. “No one should be able to do that.”

She raises a dark eyebrow, that one gesture oozing amusement and a challenge all at once. “A lot of things happening around here that shouldn’t be, lately.”

“Priyanka was injured just a couple of days ago,” Jon pushes. “I saw her, with Michael. Should she really be swallowing _swords_ right now?”

The eyebrow narrows. “We can take care of our own.”

“I haven’t seen much proof of that,” Jon glowers. He’s not sure if that’s true, he’s not even sure who _we_ is exactly, but the canvas is still scratching against his fingers, like a weak, vulnerable scab in the center of his chest. Jon doesn’t like being vulnerable. Vulnerability has never gotten him anything but a stern lecture and a week locked in his bedroom.

“Your opinion means a great deal to me,” she deadpans.

Jon frowns, feeling his power sizzle uselessly over his skin. No one’s looked at him like that - with dark, judgmental eyes and an uninterested tilt to her mouth - in decades, and it takes Jon a moment to figure out what it means. Once he does, his frown deepens. “You don’t like me very much.”

“Astute.”

“But you don’t even know me.”

“I know you plenty.”

“And I don’t even know your name.”

“Alyssa.” She looks at Jon, her eyes wide and challenging in her wire-rimmed glasses. They’re blue, to match the sequined blue and red scarf tied into her hair. “We took a vote, you know that? Saving you was not unanimous.”

“You kidnapped me,” Jon corrects, crossing his arms across his chest. “And I might like you better if you voted against.”

“I never said I was the vote against.”

That pulls Jon up short. “You’re a very strange woman.”

“As you can see,” Alyssa raises that one perfect eyebrow again, “I care a great deal about that.”

Jon frowns, feeling his forehead wrinkle and crease. In the hallway, he can hear Michael shouting orders about the fallen highwire performer. Overhead, he sees a parade of bengal tigers entering the ring from a gangplank high above the crowd. All of it pales, though, in comparison with this woman in front of him, whose mouth is twisting upwards at odds with her tone and her words. “Why are you telling me this?”

Alyssa crosses her arms across her chest. Her loose tunic gapes across her chest, illuminating the pale skin under her collarbone. “I’m a fortune teller, for better or for worse. It’s a lonely business, and it makes me feel better to drag others down with me.”

Jon shakes his head. “That’s not very nice.”

“It’s not,” she agrees. “See? We do have something in common.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, drop the act,” Alyssa snorts. “Do you want to know your fortune or not?”

“I-“ Jon tilts his head, trying to read valence in the creases of her forehead. “Do I?”

“You shouldn’t,” Alyssa grins, “but now you won’t be able to think about anything else.”

Jon sighs. “Did your crystal ball tell you that?”

“I don’t need a crystal ball to read your face,” she laughs. “Has anyone ever told you you’re an open book?”

Jon sighs. “All the fucking time.”

Alyssa grins, sweeping her long skirts behind her as she turns on her heel. “Coming?” She asks, not waiting for him as she leads the way to her wagon.

Jon sighs, wanting to hang back. The Bengal tigers are now prowling the high platform above his head and he can still see Pri waiting in the wings, but Alyssa seems to know more about his life than he does. 

So, he follows her to a wagon on the midway. It’s not quite as rundown as the one Jon’s staying in, but it’s not too far off either. The stairs are angled downwards and rickety, the edges of the wagon splintering and worn. The garish paint, though, is fresh, splattered across the side in a loose likeness of herself, sitting amidst a crude depiction of the River Styx with her hands crossed over a crystal ball. 

Jon raises an eyebrow as he parrots, “you don’t need a crystal ball, huh?”

She waves him away, “publicity,” and holds open the curtains of fabric she uses as a door.

Inside, the wagon is filled to the brim with hanging fabrics and shelves of jars and thick dusty books arranged haphazardly. It reminds Jon, though, of his mother’s study in Boston. The townhouse was cold, new and elegantly decorated to impress but not to function, but the study was her room and only hers. It was ringed in bookcases and there was a fire always burning in the fireplace, throwing shadows across the piles of his mother’s knick knacks and trinkets. Jon always thought that his mother came alive in that room, as if it filled her up with the only bit of warmth and clutter and welcoming spirit the townhouse possessed.

Despite himself, Jon smiles as he moves a pile of scarves aside and sits on a worn, over-large cushion.

“Tea?” Alyssa asks. “I have some Jasmine left over from a client in Santa Fe. Professional courtesy says I should warn you that Jasmine opens your soul to the spirits, but, your soul’s already pretty open so it won’t do much harm.”

Jon raises his arms, slowly, to curl around his chest. He’s spent the better part of two decades building walls around his soul. As she looks at him, though, they feel flimsy and loose, like a single touch could send them all crashing down.

“Crude, but effective,” she says kindly, as if she can read his mind, “for most people. I’m not most people.”

Jon frowns at her back as she turns to put on the kettle. “Do you do this to all your clients?”

“Only the ones who need it.” She glances back at him. “You’ve been screaming out for help for a very long time.”

The kettle whistles and Alyssa turns back, humming to herself as she fills two mugs and puts in the exact amount of powdered milk and sugar Jon would make for himself. She carries them carefully over to the table, sinking to her knees on her own cushion and sliding Jon’s over to him. “Don’t look so shocked, I told you I could see the future.”

Jon takes his mug and wraps his fingers around it carefully. The ceramic burns against his raw fingertips, but he doesn’t move his hands away. “I don’t want to believe you.”

“Is seeing the future really any more or less fantastical than being able to persuade people to jump off a bridge?” She wraps her fingers around her own mug, blowing on it gently. “I’d tell you not to burn your tongue, but you’ll do it anyway.”

Jon puts his mug down next to his elbow, missing the warmth of it immediately. “I’ve never told someone to jump off a bridge.”

“I did, once.” Alyssa sighs. “Hoover wasn’t quite so willing to jump as I imagine your young women have been.”

“I don’t quite equate a night in my bed with jumping off a bridge.”

“I can’t comment on that,” she laughs, her eyes dancing in the low lamplight, just enough to throw a halo over the table and the two of them. “But the theory is the same.”

“I-“ Jon pauses, his mind catching up with him. “Hoover?”

Alyssa nods. “He’s shorter in person than in his portraits.”

“You worked with President Hoover?”

“And his economic advisors, yes.”

“You worked with President Hoover,” Jon repeats, “and now you’re here. Doing readings for pig farmers in the sweltering heat.”

Alyssa shrugs easily, her shoulders loose and her eyes catching on Jon’s. “I worked with a lot of powerful men when I was in DC. Powerful men prefer compliance over truth.”

“The stock market crash,” Jon breathes out.

“He didn’t want to hear it,” Alyssa agrees. “He threw me out of the White House and out of town, with nothing but what I could carry. The Batty Brothers saved me.”

“That was awfully far to fall.”

“Farther than you have,” Alyssa nods, “if we’re measuring dicks.”

Jon snorts.

“But no height at all,” she continues, “if you’re falling towards home.”

Jon swallows the last of his laughter. “It must have been easier for you. You could see how it would end.”

She shakes her head. “It doesn’t work like that. I see flashes, images and words and possibilities. I can never be certain.”

“Your power rips you off.”

She laughs, her head tipping back. Her neck is long, the skin stretching down, down, down into the open collar of her shirt. Her eyes are shining when she drops her head again. “You’re not wrong, but, now that you know, do you wanna take a whirl at it?”

Jon shakes his head, smiling a little despite himself. “My life isn’t half as interesting as the world economy.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” she shakes her head, her smile shrinking to something small and shy and a little pitying. “My family’s much more important than the state of any stock.”

Jon swallows, reaching for his mug without thinking. He takes a long sip, swearing as the tea scalds his tongue. “Fuck.”

“Warned you.” Alyssa’s shoulders shake as she reaches for the deck of cards.

Jon sets the mug back down, a little further away. “That doesn’t prove anything.”

“Sure it doesn’t.” Alyssa shuffles the cards and then holds them out. “Tap three times.”

“What does that do?” Jon asks, even as he raps them with his knuckle.

“Absolutely nothing,” Alyssa shrugs. “The cards are just a prop, but in my experience, people need a framework with which to hear bad news. It sounds better if it’s coming from some otherworldly, spiritual place, rather than my foul mouth.”

Jon shakes his head. “Can’t say I blame them.”

“Me either.” Alyssa places the deck in the middle of the table and pulls the top three cards, face down. She points to each of them in turn. “These represent the past, the present, and the future.”

Jon pulls his ankles under himself and, despite himself, trains his eyes on the first card. “Past first?”

Alyssa nods, turning over the first card. It’s painted with a man dressed in red robs, standing in front of a yellow background and behind a table full of opulence. Alyssa hums thoughtfully, as if she didn’t know exactly what she was about to turn over. “The Magician reversed. The Magician represents your talents and privileges.”

“That sounds good.”

“It does,” Alyssa agrees. “Except yours is reversed. In your past, you’ve been blocked from using those talents and privileges to their full effect. Instead of the benevolent magician, you’ve been the master of illusion. You might look like a master showman, but your true goal has been trickery and selfish gain.”

The back of Jon’s neck burns ice cold. “Cheery.”

“This card is a warning,” she continues. “If you keep down this path, your lust for power will lead to your downfall. You have the choice now, though, whether to keep this card in the past or to drag it into your present and future. You still have time to make some changes.”

Jon frowns. “Such as?”

“Such as not tearing down housing for the poor to line your bank account, for a start.” Alyssa doesn’t look away from him. “Your power can be a gift, Jon, in the hands of good men. Are you a good man?”

“Yes,” Jon says, automatically, by rote. He is a good man, isn’t he? He does what he’s told. He builds things, creates a lasting legacy for himself and his family. He loves his mother and tries not to disappoint his father. Except, that _yes_ sounds an awful lot like his father’s voice. It sounds an awful lot like all those times his father praised him for using his power to seal deals all over the Eastern seaboard to-

Well, to line the pockets of Favreau Industries. To build buildings that people need and use and- Jon’s never given the people those buildings displace a second thought. Except, that’s not true. Jon gave them second, third, and fourth thoughts, until his father had beaten it through his thick skull that second thoughts lead nowhere that isn’t dark, dank, lonely, and hungry. 

Jon shakes his head and corrects, “I don’t know what kind of man I am.”

Alyssa smiles softly, her cheeks soft and round and sympathetic as she reaches for the next card. “That’s the first step. Are you ready for your present card?”

“Would it matter if I said no?”

Alyssa reaches for the second card, turning it over. “Death.”

Jon leans forward to look at the card, swallowing at the skeleton riding a magnificent white horse, a large sickle in his hand. “I was hoping my present would be a little less morbid.”

“It’s not that kind of death,” Alyssa snorts, smiling despite the imagery on the card. “This is the death of your old self. It represents the end of a major life phase, so that a new one can begin. Death symbolizes new beginnings, a metamorphosis, a chance to burn your old self down in order to rise from the ashes someone better. Hopefully someone,” she points to his past card, “less manipulative. Perhaps more real and less illusory.”

The burning on the back of Jon’s neck spreads across his shoulders, down his arms and chest, settling in the tops of his thighs and around his ribcage. “Oh, is that all?”

“That’s all,” Alyssa grins. “Easy.”

“Easy.” Jon shakes his head. This is ridiculous. Cards can’t tell his fortune any better that the angle of the moon can. His chest is betraying him, though. It feels full and warm with something that feels awfully close to a hope and possibility that feels dangerously familiar. Jon’s been burned before. Jon doesn’t know if he can survive it a second time. “Sure.”

Alyssa shrugs. “If you want to change, it is.”

She’s smiling, soft and knowing and Jon pushes away the urge to push her out, out of his chest, out of his walls, out of this damn wagon. His eyes flick to the third card. “That one’s going to tell me if it’s worth it, right?”

“Not exactly.” Alyssa fingers the edge of the third card. Her hands are shaking a little. Jon had almost forgotten that she already knows what’s under each of these. Or, at least, she already knows the sentiment behind them. “This card represents your future. Ready?”

Jon nods, “as I’ll ever be,” and trains his eyes on the card as she flips it over. It’s a scratchy image of a tower hit by lightning, fire streaming from the windows and men falling from miles in the sky. 

Alyssa keeps her wide, sympathetic eyes trained on him. She doesn’t look down at the card. “The Tower.”

The wagon feels suddenly darker and colder, muffling the hope he’d been feeling a moment before. He shivers, reaching for his tea, but when he brings it to his lips the water is tepid. “It’s safe to say that’s not good?”

“Not necessarily.” Alyssa lets her eyes glance down at the card, finally. “The Tower represents change. Not a small, earth rattling change, but a foundational, earth-shattering, radical change. The Tower is the card that my clients fear the most.”

Jon swallows. He looks back at the first two cards, the red pride of the Magician and the white hope of Death, and asks, “but if I’m ready for that kind of change?”

“Then it can be the most powerful card in the deck.” Alyssa’s proud smile does a little to chase away the chill and the darkness. “If you embrace the Tower, it can bring about great things.”

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“Great change doesn’t come about all on its own.” Alyssa’s smile sinks to something small and sad. “It burns something in its wake.”

Jon looks at the fire blowing out of the windows in the Tower. They crackle off the card, jumping onto his fingertips and burning up his arms. 

Alyssa’s voice fills the wagon. “You’re going to bring fire down upon us all, Jon Favreau.”

***


	4. Baton Route to New Orleans

**Baton Route, LA 1934**

“You look awful.” Emily slides onto the bench across from him. Her hair is down and slightly curled, framing her face in the early morning sun. She taps the bench next to her and a small blond dog jumps up. He sticks his front paws on the table and steals half the cornbread from her plate.

“Should he be eating that?” Jon asks. He hopes his voice doesn’t sound as scratchy as it feels.

Emily shrugs. “Leo eats everything.”

Jon reaches across the table to scratch between his ears. "Hi Leo, it's nice to meet you. What tricks do you do?"

Emily shrugs. "He can sit. Shake sometimes, if I'm offering a slice of apple pie.”

Jon snorts. "I meant in the ring."

Emily laughs, petting Leo's head and offering him another piece of cornbread. "Oh, he's not a circus dog. He's just a dog who lives at the circus."

"That's allowed?"

"Why not?" Emily frowns. "He's not hurting anyone."

"No, that's not-" Jon sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

Jon's tired. No, more than tired. The caravan left for Baton Rouge half-past midnight the night before, and Jon had struggled to sleep through the bumps and ridges in the road. Which was mostly a godsend, because when he slept, he dreamt of a skeleton with a sickle chasing him down. Except every time they caught him, Jon would turn and find flames in his hands, poised at Alyssa's throat.

Jon shakes his head, reaching tiredly for his spoon. "I've always wanted a dog. My father thought they were dirty and distracting."

Emily laughs. "He's not wrong, but, I like dirty and distracting."

Jon flushes. "Me too, apparently."

“That’s a revelation,” Lovett snickers as he climbs onto the bench next to Emily. He taps the spot next to him and a matching golden dog jumps up to rub against Leo and stair forlornly at Jon’s plate. Lovett tries half-heartedly to push her away, “no begging, Pundit,” in the same breath as he hands her half his sausage. “Let me make the pitch.”

Emily groans. She rests her elbow on the table and drops her head to rest in her palm. “You’ve already pitched it.”

“A dozen times, in fact,” Tommy adds, squeezing onto the bench next to Jon, asking “you mind?” belatedly.

Jon shakes his head, motioning for Tommy to join him. Tommy’s shoulders are wide enough to brush against Jon’s, his body heat burning through the thin t-shirt he’s wearing.

“For the last time,” Lovett needles. “Promise.”

“Can I get that in writing?” Tommy asks.

“What good will that do?” Lovett grumbles, tearing off a corner of cornbread and offering it to Pundit. “I’ll give you something in exchange. Something good.”

Tommy raises an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“Like,” Lovett frowns thoughtfully, “I’ll give you a blowjob. Three blowjobs. I’ll even let you tug my hair the way you like.”

Tommy chokes on his beans, coughing into his spoon. “_Lovett_.”

Emily giggles. “We are in mixed company.”

“I don’t mind,” Jon lies. He can feel his cheeks flush red enough to match the sunburn still blazing across his neck. “It’s fine.”

“See.” Lovett motions towards Jon. “He has glamour, don’t pretend he hasn’t used it.”

“Oh,” Emily lifts her head a little to wink at Jon. “I know he has.”

Jon coughs into his bowl, handing the rest of his cornbread over to Leo rather than trying to choke on it. “Didn’t work on you.”

“Of course it didn’t,” Tommy grins, reaching out to squeeze Emily’s hand.

“Not because of anything you did.” Emily rolls her eyes and turns back to Lovett. “I still don’t know what I get out of this deal. By my count, Tommy gets three orgasms and I get bupkis.”

Lovett shrugs. “An IOU?”

Emily snorts. “If you think I’m buying that, you’re even dumber than what you’re trying to sell.” She drops her head to her palm again, her other hand reaching to twist in Pundit’s fur as she waits.

Lovett sighs. “I’ll pick your lottery ticket next time we find actual civilization?”

Emily snorts. “Hasn’t worked the last three times.”

“I’m getting better,” Lovett exclaims. “Pri won $10 off that ticket in Amarillo.”

“Luck.”

“Numbers,” Lovett corrects.

“Wait,” Jon starts, before he can stop himself. He feels three sets of eyes and two dogs turn towards him and yeah, there’s that flush again, trailing down into the open neck of his sheer white button town. His father’s voice rattles around the back of his mind, _don’t talk about your power, in fact, don’t talk about any powers_, but they’re looking at him like they already know every one of his deepest secrets. Jon swallows. “Your power- I thought it was something with humor?”

Lovett’s face splits into the widest grin, two pink splotches rising to the top of his cheekbones as he reaches out to hit Tommy’s shoulder. “Favreau thought my power was _humor_.”

Tommy rolls his eyes. “Your ego is quite humorous.”

Jon shrugs, offering self-consciously, “you’re a clown. And you managed to make Hoovervilles funny, figured it’d have to be divine intervention to do that.”

Lovett grins impossibly wider. “I’m extraordinarily good with numbers. In my past life, I parlayed that into-”

“A life of crime,” Tommy offers.

“After that,” Lovett shrugs, “I started doing tricks. Cards, juggling, creating illusions, it’s all just physics and physics is manipulating numbers. The clown thing is a side effect of, well, physics. Sort of.”

“He thinks he’s funny,” Emily clarifies.

“So does Jon.” Lovett points at him. “He laughed at my Hooverville bit. He thought it was brilliant.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Jon protests.

“Pick a side,” Emily tells him, before turning her gaze to Lovett. “We’re doing this? You really wanna do this now?”

“In exchange for a few blowjobs and a lottery ticket?” Lovett nods. “Hell yeah I do.”

Emily sighs, lifting her head and dropping her elbow to the table.”Hoovervilles are a touchy subject. If we were in New York or Boston or even DC, this might be a different discussion. But we’re in Louisiana. It’s not going to go over well.”

“By which she means you’re going to start a riot,” Tommy clarifies. “And we might not be able to save you this time.”

“Name one other time-”

“Fresno,” Emily starts listing. “Milwaukee. That time in- where was it again? When you sang that song about corn?”

“Des Moines,” Tommy offers. “I had to fend off a dozen men with pitchforks after that one.”

“You’re misremembering,” Lovett shrugs. “Things always look worse in hindsight.”

Tommy frowns. “I don’t think that’s true.”

“I’m going to do it,” Lovett nods. “It’s decided.”

“Do what?” Dan asks, his voice floating from somewhere over Jon’s head. Jon looks up to see him frowning into the morning sun.

“His Hooverville bit,” Emily sighs.

“Yeah.” Dan sighs, like this isn’t the first, third, or dozenth time he’s had this conversation. “He’s not going to do it.”

“Just for that,” Lovett grins, “I’m going to do it. Tonight. Just you watch me.”

“Do we have to?” Tommy frowns.

Jon slides up from the bench, their voices fading a little as he turns to look at Dan. He’s been looking for this moment ever since Alyssa dragged him into her wagon and pulled that damn Ten of Swords. “Hey, can I talk to you for a minute?”

Dan shrugs. “Sure. I’m on my way to the menagerie tent. Walk with me?”

Jon nods, leaving his bowl behind for the dogs as he falls into step with Dan. “So, I wanted to talk to you-”

“I know.” Dan digs his hands into his pockets. His shoulders push forward and Jon can see the tattoo of a dog that looks an awful lot like Leo on his collarbone. “Given that you asked to speak with me.”

“Right.” Jon drags his eyes away from the tattoo. “Emily said that your next stop is New Orleans.”

“Emily has a big mouth.”

“New Orleans,” Jon continues valiantly, “has a pretty good train hub. I can grab the Atlantic Coast Line and be back in Boston by the end of the week.”

Dan’s eyes are the brightest, most unreadable shade of blue. He doesn’t look away from Jon as he says levelly, “if that’s what you want.”

Jon nods, his heart flopping in his chest. He feels a quick rush of hope that he’s going to get out of here, back to his life, back to Boston and his father’s gratitude for the Dallas deal and to feeling _useful_ and- Jon’s heart flips again, tugging painfully against his ribs. The hope slides sideways, but, it doesn’t matter if he’s feeling hope or fear or- Either way, he needs to get out of here before he burns the whole place down. He looks steadily at Dan. “It is.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Jon’s eyes narrow. “That’s all? You’re just going to let me walk out?”

“We’ll arrive in New Orleans tomorrow morning. Day after next, Louis has to go into town for a stallion delivery. You can go with him,” Dan shrugs, watching Jon carefully. “Or, if you really wanna get to Boston by the end of the week, you can go tonight. There are plenty of trains from here to New Orleans.”

“I’ll go tonight,” Jon says, quickly, worried that the offer will disappear if he waits any longer. “This isn’t a trap, is it? This was much too easy.”

Dan sighs deeply, reaching down to pick up a loose cable and twist it into a safer knot. He turns his eyes from Jon and doesn’t look back. “We did our duty. We gave you a chance, if you don’t want to take it, it’s no skin off my nose.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Dan straightens, leaving the rope curled on the ground and stepping jerkily forward. “Everyone in this circus pulls his or her own weight. You’ve done nothing but eat our food and use our wagon for days now.”

Jon frowns. “I did a shift on stake duty. I was injured.”

“I don’t keep deadweight on my crew. Honestly? It’ll be a relief to have you gone.”

Jon’s voice sticks in his throat. Jon’s not used to disappointing people, even people he dislikes. And he dislikes Dan. He dislikes Dan a great deal. “It’ll be a relief to be gone.”

“Well,” Dan shrugs, stopping in front of the menagerie tent that Jon’s been avoiding like the plague for over a week now. “That’s settled then.”

“Yeah.” Jon takes a step back. “You’re not worried I’m going to get myself killed?”

“Oh, you’re definitely going to get yourself killed.” Dan shrugs, already ducking into the canvas doorway. “But, like I said, I gave you your chance. You’re not my problem anymore.”

***

Jon’s in his wagon, a glass of Michael’s high proof bathtub gin in his hand and his mostly-packed rucksack open on his cot. His clothes are drying on the line - the Atlantic Coast Line, he figures, will never sell him a ticket smelling like he does - and he’s enjoying the warm evening air on his bare legs and arms when the commotion starts.

If Jon’s learned anything over his week or so with the Batty Brothers Circus, it’s that circuses are noisy endeavors. All day, workers are hammering stakes into place, elephants are unrolling the canvas tents, and performers are shouting directions to each other as they practice new routines. All evening, audiences are ooh-ing and ahh-ing and applauding the amazing feats that take place under the Big Top and vendors are loudly hawking cotton candy and peep shows on the midway. Every night, the wagons are trudging from city to city, the wood creaking, the animals protesting, Jon not sleeping a wink.

The noise coming out of the Big Top now, though, is something entirely new. It’s angry, aggressive, and threatening in a way that goes far past the general annoyance of a ticket holder bitching about the quality of the show or the combined gasp of a crowd watching a performer fall. This is different.

Jon stands, already taking a step towards the door - to do what in his boxers and undershirt, he’s not sure - when a blur races into his wagon and slams the door behind him.

“Dan said you’re leaving tonight.”

Jon blinks at Lovett’s face, the pink splotches on his cheeks bleeding down his cheeks and mixing with the white paint. His over-large pants are torn at the hem, like he hadn’t quite escaped all the hands grabbing for him as he’d made his run from the Big Top. “Yeah. I’m grabbing a car in-”

“Now.” Lovett eyes Jon up and down and grabs his clothes from the line, tossing them at Jon’s chest. “You’re going now and I’m coming with you.”

Jon catches them haphazardly. “These are still wet.”

Lovett glances back at the doorway, and Jon can just hear voices outside. He snaps back to Jon. “Excuse me for caring less about a little dampness than _my life_.”

Jon raises an eyebrow. “I don’t know what you did in there, but it’s really not my problem.”

“It’s a little your problem.” Lovett grabs Jon’s rucksack, making a _hurry up_ motion with his hands. “I never would have done it without your encouragement.”

“I-” Jon closes his mouth as the wagon shakes. “Is that-?”

“A riot? Seems like it.” Lovett looks actually scared, his skin pale in the few places not coated in white makeup. “We might want to hurry.”

Jon sighs, stepping into his damp pants and pulling his arms into his shirt. He doesn’t button it up as he takes a step towards the front door.

“Not that way,” Lovett sighs. “The back way.”

“There’s a back way?” Jon asks, already stepping forward to follow Lovett towards the back of the wagon, past the piles of old hay and racks of used costumes. “This might have been useful to know earlier.”

Lovett ignores him as he uses the full weight of his shoulder to burst the door open, then tumbles down the rickety stairs. He glances back, just once, to make sure that Jon’s following before taking off into the darkness. He only stops once he’s pulled the door open to Jon’s town car - thankfully quite a bit early - and has thrown himself into the backseat. “You’re here for Jonathan Favreau?”

The driver frowns into the rearview mirror. “Yes, sir. You are-?”

“I’m Favreau.” Jon says, climbing onto the seat next to Lovett. In the not so distance, he can hear the beginnings of the riot moving their way. “Union Station. Quickly. I have money.”

Lovett raises an eyebrow. “You have money?”

Jon raises him, eyebrow for eyebrow. “You did the Hooverville song?”

Lovett sighs, his eyes sliding closed as he leans his head back. “I still stand by that decision.”

Jon snorts, leaning his own head back and turning to watch the countryside race by outside the window. Their shoulders jostle together on the bumpy road. By this time next week, Jon thinks as his chest warms, this will all be the most distant memory.

***

"That was incredible," Lovett crows as he steps onto the curb outside Union Station. "You just said the word and he took you at it."

“Glamour, not the words.” Jon pulls his rucksack onto his shoulder and watches the driver pull away. He waves, putting as much persuasion behind the gesture as he can. "And I would have had actual money to pay him if we hadn't had to leave so fast."

"Sure," Lovett shrugs. "But you never _have_ to."

Jon shakes his head. "So says the clown who feels so strongly about justice that he started a riot."

“Take from the rich, give to the poor,” Lovett shrugs. “I’m a modern day Robin Hood.”

“You certainly look like one,” Jon agrees, raising a pointed eyebrow at Lovett’s baggy black pants, overlarge and rolled up at the ankles to show off the plaid lining.

Lovett blinks down at himself and shrugs. “Once I get to Bourbon Street, no one will look at me twice.”

Jon tilts his chin towards a huddle of business travelers. “Unlike those five passengers staring at us right now?”

Lovett's eyes follow Jon’s, darting around the sidewalk nervously. "What time's your train?"

Jon glances up at the clock on the station facade. "Couple hours."

"Perfect." Lovett takes a step forward with all the false bravado that Jon’s just realizing he uses to mask his fear and uncertainty. "Plenty of time for a drink or two."

Jon snorts. "The only thing I'm going to be drinking is a coffee. Inside the station."

The smile slips from Lovett's face. "You owe me this."

Jon raises an eyebrow. "Because I laughed at your song?"

"Because it took months to prepare your rescue." Lovett narrows his eyes. "And you're throwing it away after a week. Don't you think you owe me at least one drink?"

"Why do you _care_?" Jon sighs.

A block up, a car does a u-turn, illuminating Lovett's melting face in its headlights and setting Jon's heart racing. He waffles. His glamour shouldn't wear off for at least another twenty minutes, but that still leaves the driver with plenty of time to return and collect his fare in any way he deems necessary. So much for turning over a new leaf or burning down his old self or whatever Alyssa’s cards had foretold.

Safer not to be here when that happens, Jon justifies as he squares his shoulders. He adjusts the rucksack and falls into step next to Lovett, warning, "just one drink."

"That's all I'm asking for," Lovett nods. Under the clown makeup, he's grinning from ear to ear.

***

"The blonde at the end of the bar." Lovett nods towards a woman dressed in a midnight blue cocktail dress, crossed in the back with equal amounts of skin and sequins.

As Jon looks at her, she winks and slides off her stool, walking towards them. She's wearing elbow-length black gloves and she touches Jon's wrist with one long, elegant finger. "Good evening gentleman."

"Good evening, ma'am." Lovett downs his drink, waving his empty glass at Jon challengingly.

Jon snorts. He directs the force of his power into his wrist, bending it under her fingers. "I didn't expect to find a woman like you in a place like this."

"Oh," she laughs, throwing her head back. She's wearing fourteen karat diamond earrings and Jon feels his reluctance bounce off them. "This place has the best bourbon in town. Have you tried some?"

"Does it now?" Jon lets his power twist up, drifting from his wrist into his throat and twining around his words. "My friend and I are just stopping through on our way to Birmingham. We haven't had the pleasure of trying any of your bourbons, none the less your finest."

"Well, we have to take care of that straight away." She motions for the bartender. "Ash, be a doll and pour these men a glass of your best? It'll be on my tab."

Ash graciously fingers the ten dollar bill Jon's already slipped him - bummed off an investment banker who made it big selling weak stocks in the days leading up to the Crash - and doesn't mention the three glasses of bourbon he's already poured for them on others' tabs.

"Cheers," Jon offers, holding up his new glass.

She smiles brightly. "To new friends."

"And bourbon," Lovett grins. He'd spent a good ten minutes scrubbing off his makeup earlier, but there are still streaks of white in his hairline and smudged mascara under his eyes.

She eyes him with disdain, before turning her best smile on Jon. "How would you like to dance?"

"That's a very kind offer," Jon shakes his head, ignoring Lovett's snickers behind her and the pounding in his heart. He's never turned down three women in one night before. He's rarely turned down one woman in a single night before. His train, he tells himself. He has a train to catch, and there isn't nearly enough time to seal the deal. "But I've got a bad foot. Doctors say I shouldn't dance lest I risk doing even more damage."

Her smile falters, but Jon pushes his power into every corner of his regretful smile and she recovers. "I wouldn't want that. It was very nice to meet you, gentleman. Enjoy your bourbon."

"Oh we plan to," Lovett sing-songs as she turns and weaves her way into the crowd of dancers. He leans against the bar, his elbow brushing against Jon's. "That was too easy. You need a harder mark.”`

Jon snorts. He takes a long sip of his drink, scanning the bar until he sees him on the dance floor, tall and lanky and blond, with a thick chest and dancing feet to die for. "How about him?"

Lovett freezes next to him, his shoulder tightening against Jon's. He's wearing the skin-tight black long-sleeve shirt he wears in the ring and Jon can feel his body heat radiating through it. "You- Men, you, ahh, it works on men too?"

Jon frowns at the side of Lovett's face. With his eyes, he traces the streaks of white paint in the curls behind Lovett’s ear and the flush on Lovett’s cheeks that is all natural. "It's an equal opportunity power, yes. Men fall for glamour as much as women do."

Lovett drops his eyes into his drink, like he can find his way to the bottom of the bottle if he just looks hard enough. "I didn't mean- Not your power, Jon."

"Oh." Jon swallows. The man from the dance floor is already walking towards him, drawn by the beginnings of glamour Jon had put into his nod, but Jon turns away from him. "Yeah, I am equal opportunity too."

"Oh, that's-" Lovett swallows, his jaw moving rhythmically. "That's good to know."

"Lovett-" Jon pauses for a moment. He shouldn't- He has a train to catch and a life to go back to and he shouldn’t be entertaining the question, none the less the hope that Lovett might- But Jon’s already crossed so many lines tonight, what’s one or a dozen more? He feels his power sizzling along his shoulder where they’re touching, powerless and comforting. "At breakfast this morning, you offered- You and Tommy, but not-"

"Yeah." Lovett swallows again, his eyes darting to Jon's and back to his glass again. "I love Emily. She's mine, in every way, except-" Lovett shrugs. "My dick's not quite as equal opportunity as my heart."

Jon snorts into his glass. "You should use that one in the ring sometime."

"And start another riot?" Lovett's cheeks are pink and his lips are wet and red from the bourbon. "I start enough of those without bringing my sexuality into it."

Jon understands that kind of riot. Jon’s started that kind of riot over and over again, until his father’s switch took care of Jon’s big mouth and his father’s look of disappointment took care of any rebellious bone in Jon’s body. Except, Jon never quite forgot the feeling he got when he glamoured that turkey leg for that little boy with the dark curls and warm eyes. That little boy who’s memory came back to Jon every time that he smiled at a man in a dark and crowded room, every time he took that man out back, got to his knees, tempted fate and the cops and his father’s legacy to feel just a moment of the life he’d left in that circus tent so many years ago.

“I don’t mind a riot if it’s for a good cause,” Jon hears himself saying, a surprise more to himself than to even Lovett.

Lovett snorts. "You're the only one."

Jon shrugs. "I'm surprisingly okay with that."

Lovett shakes his head, muttering "Alyssa wasn’t wrong, you're going to be the death of us all," before downing his glass. "Come on, you gonna bum us another round off that guy?"

"No." Jon finishes his own glass and slides it onto the bar. He holds out his hand. "I want to dance."

Lovett glances back at the guy in the crowd, then to Jon. "Don't you have a train to catch?"

Jon looks up at the clock over the bar. It’s quarter past the last train of the night. He waits for the sharp tug of disappointment and panic in his chest, but it doesn’t come.

He looks back at Lovett, at the sweaty curls stuck to his forehead and the red paint brushed through his eyebrows and the tilt of his smile that promises everything Jon’s spent the last fourteen years burying deep in his subconscious. Only then does his chest pinch. Fire be damned. He can make his own future.

"Already missed it," Jon shrugs, pushing past the way his stomach swoops and the back of his neck goosebumps. "I'll catch the next one."

He holds out his hand, his heart thudding wildly until Lovett takes it.

***

"Can I ask you something?"

Lovett's head rolls against Jon's shoulder. He's sweating through his shirt, his body hot and sticky and smelling like whiskey. His curls are damp around his ears, speckled with white paint. "Seems awfully unfair, taking advantage of my vulnerable state."

Jon snorts. "Not taking advantage."

"No." Lovett pushes himself up straight as they step out of the bar and onto Bourbon Street. The sun is rising between the buildings, and the street is littered with plastic beads and paper cups and other couples stumbling home, their shoes dangling from their fingertips. Lovett’s zig-zagging through them on bare feet, his clown shoes thumping heavily against both their hips, where his hand is hanging weakly. "Glamouring all those women for free drinks was taking advantage."

"They could afford it," Jon waves him away. He wraps his fingers around Lovett's elbow and helps him down the curb.

"Doesn't make it right," Lovett shrugs. His cheeks are flushed but the rest of his skin is pale.

"Don't throw up on me," Jon warns, "these are expensive shoes."

Lovett rolls his eyes, his feet walking at a bit of an angle but his voice steadier than Jon's. "Bought for by what? Glamouring real estate agents to sell you buildings and construction workers to give you cheap labor?"

"They're the swindlers," Jon shrugs. He can hear his father's voice in his ear, and he repeats the words - "you have to fight with every advantage you have in this world, because the other man will be doing the same. Level the playing field” - even as they taste like ash on his tongue.

Lovett stops walking, swaying a little on his feet and catching Jon's unsteady gaze with his own. "That would be a terrible argument if you _didn't_ have a power that makes it impossible to resist you."

Jon steps closer, his handmade Italian leather shoes brushing the toes of Lovett's worn socks. "Some people don't have any trouble resisting me."

"Jon-"

"I'm serious," Jon sighs. "And you're obsessed with powers, the whole lot of you, standing on your damn high horses-"

"I'm a clown, I leave that for the acrobats."

"- when you make a living swindling audiences out of their hard-earned money to watch men and women stretch the barriers of physics." Jon shakes his head, feeling the bottle of bourbon he'd drunk warming his skin and thickening his skull. "Except you're not, are you? Your _powers_ are."

Lovett’s eyes darken. "They come to see something exceptional. Our powers are exceptional."

"Business is built on men with exceptional minds. My power is part of my exceptional mind.”

“You think awfully highly of yourself,” Lovett snorts. “Besides, it’s not the same.”

Jon shakes his head. His cheeks are hot and he can hear exasperation tinging his words. "Why not?"

"Because it's not," Lovett's voice rises. 

A couple stumbling out of the bar across from them looks up, concerned, but Jon raises his hand, letting his power crackle up his neck and into the corners of his smile. "Good night, sir and ma’am.”

Lovett rolls his eyes, dropping back on his heels and lowering his voice to a low hiss. "The circus is a refuge. Most of us had nowhere else to go and still have no place else to go. It's not safe for us in the world and the sooner you realize that, the better off you'll be."

Jon's heart pounds against his chest. His father used to threaten him when he was little, _get caught using that power just once, and your choice will be jail or the circus_. Jon had always thought it was skill that he hadn’t gotten caught. But if it was just dumb luck- Jon shakes his head. "You're jealous."

Lovett snorts. "Of what?"

"That I've made a normal life for myself and that I've found a constructive use for my power," Jon shrugs.

"And what kind of life is that?" Lovett shakes his head, taking a step back. His eyes are flashing green and golden in the low dawn light. "Hiding in plain sight is still hiding. Worse than. You know how much good you could be doing with that power?"

Jon shakes his head, answering, "no," honestly and, "to entertain people?,” skeptically.

"Yes," Lovett says, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world. “To entertain and to educate. To make every person in that audience leave a little happier and a little bit better of a person. To teach them tolerance and the power of freedom and what it means to be just a little more accepting of things they don't understand."

Jon scoffs. That sounds good. That sounds wonderful. But- "You're living a pipe dream."

"Maybe you should actually _see_ a show rather than hiding from them, before you say that." Lovett shakes his head, glancing down at his watch. "You missed the first morning train."

"Lovett-"

Lovett's eyes flash as he shakes his head. "I really believe that we're doing some good. I have to believe that. And you did miss your train."

For the first time in as long as Jon can remember, Jon's head is filled with something other than his father's words. Hope and possibility and the chance for _good_ chasing out the fear and the endless rat race for acceptance and power and normality. 

He steps forward, letting their toes brush again as he drops his head. "I know," he whispers against Lovett's lips, and then he tilts his chin and kisses him.

For a moment, Lovett tastes like bourbon and sweat and the bitter after taste of cheap lipstick. For a moment, Lovett arches into him, feeling solid and warm and so real under Jon's hand. For a moment, Lovett kisses back, making a soft sound of surprise as his lips part, soft and practiced and-

Jon feels cold when Lovett stumbles back, his hand spread on Jon's chest to keep him at arm's length. "I can't, Jon, fuck, I can't."

Jon nods, as if Lovett's words aren't trickling through him like ice water. After a lifetime of _yes_es and _please_s and _more, Jon, where's your room?_s, he's been rejected twice in the space of a week. First by Emily, with her smooth skin and her smoldering gaze and her overpowering elegance. Now by Lovett, with his expressive hands and his unearned belief that the world can be a better place than it is now. His wavering belief that Jon, himself, can be a good man or, at least, a decent one. 

Jon wants to be that man. 

He steps back, letting Lovett sway on his feet without leaning forward to right him. "The troupe should have arrived by now."

Lovett nods and points in the direction of the rising sun. "A mile that way."

Jon turns on his heel, leading the way across the cobblestones. They're quiet until they meet the railway tracks halfway out, and Lovett eyes him. "Want to hear my latest song on Einstein's theory of relativity?"

Jon groans, more out of relief than any lingering fear that Lovett can't make a song out of anything and make it fucking brilliant.

"Einstein visited the White House a few months ago, it's topical," Lovett needles.

Jon sighs and opens his palms. "Go ahead."

He's in stitches - actual, side splitting, teary eyed stitches - by the time they reach the wagons, set up in a semi-circle around the cook’s tent. The workers are already hammering stakes, unrolling canvases, and gathering the elephants for the heaviest work. Lovett pats the haunches of the largest female as he passes, more unsteady on his feet than he was a moment ago.

Jon does reach out now, humor still shaking through him as he steadies Lovett's elbow and starts pulling him towards his wagon.

Lovett flinches, but doesn't pull away entirely. "Not that way.”

Jon keeps Lovett steady as he leads the way to a wagon Jon recognizes. It's graffitied with a range of colors and images, tall ships and pin-up women and a donkey in a top hat. Lovett climbs shakily up the rickety steps, leaning heavily into Jon's hand on his lower back, and knocks.

Dan answers almost immediately. He's dressed in long, thin pants and an undershirt, and Jon has just enough time to see a clown tattoo on his bicep before Dan's pulling Lovett close. "Where have you been? You scared us half to death."

"Escaped," Lovett shrugs. "Hopped Jon's car to New Orleans."

Dan looks over Lovett's shoulder and frowns at Jon. His fingers tighten in Lovett's curls. "You smell like a distillery."

"Makes sense," Lovett giggles, "seeing as I drank most of one."

Jon hears a snort from inside the wagon and just makes out Alyssa's naked form sliding out from the mussed sheets and reaching for her robe. She pulls it on, holding it closed as she steps up to pull Lovett toward her. "Let's get some hangover tea in you and get you to bed."

Dan let's them go, smiling fondly at their bickering backs, before dropping the smile and turning back to Jon.

Jon holds up his hands. "Nothing happened. We're a little drunk, but we're okay."

Dan nods. He doesn't smile. "You missed your train."

"Yeah," Jon nods, not looking away from Dan's cold gaze. "I did."

Dan raises an eyebrow. "I expect you in the ring at 9 am."

“I don’t-”

“9 am,” Dan repeats, as he steps into the wagon.

“I’ll-” The door slams shut before Jon can finish. Jon sighs and tells the door. “I’ll be there.”

***


	5. Montgomery to Birmingham

**Montgomery, Alabama 1934**

“Come one, come all,” Jon calls. His power stings his throat, heavy and wet with overuse. “Step right this way to see feats so incredible that you won’t believe your eyes.”

“Do you have elephants?”

“Hmm?” Jon blinks, pausing mid-marketing push to see a young boy tugging on his pant leg.

The boy looks up at him with large, dark eyes. “Does your circus have elephants?” The boy bites his lip and tacks on, “sir.”

Jon squats down, his knees screaming after six straight hours on a street corner, standing in the Alabama mud. “What kind of circus would we be if we didn’t have elephants?”

“A boring one,” the boy shrugs. “What kinds of tricks do they do?”

“Um.” In the week since Jon committed to staying with the Batty Brothers for the foreseeable future, Dan’s kept Jon too busy learning the ropes to actually sit down and watch the show and, in his down time, Jon’s stayed clear of the menagerie and all the muddled possibilities he might find there. “They do things.”

“What kinds of things?”

“Really cool things.”

“Such as?”

Jon sighs, spreading his hand on his knee as he searches for something, anything, he can remember. The last circus he’d actually watched he was eight years old and- “They dance,” Jon offers,“in pink tutus.”

The boy scrunches his nose and crosses his arms over his chest. “No they don’t.”

“They really do,” Jon nods. “Five tons of grace.”

“Prove it.”

Jon holds out a flyer. “Come to our show. Tickets are half off for children under ten. We have shows all weekend.”

The boy grabs for the flyer, clutching it tightly between his fingers as he shrugs. “Maybe I will.”

Jon hides his grin and forces a nonchalant shrug. “Maybe you’ll see some dancing elephants then.”

The boy nods distrustfully, but as he turns on his heel he bites his lip and half a minute later Jon can hear him begging his mother for tickets in the distance. 

Jon snorts, straightening with a groan. His back is getting too fucking old to spend an entire day schilling for attendees in Montgomery, Alabama. His power aches with use, constricting and loosening in a desperate attempt to get oxygen, like he’s asking muscles that jog every other week to suddenly run a marathon. And his conscience, curled far in the dark recesses of his mind, coiled and waiting to jump but just as rusty from disuse as his power is, is lagging with exhaustion from the number of times Pri’s had to dodge catcalls and spit aimed for her pretty sequined ballet shoes.

“It’s part of the job,” Pri had shrugged when, not even halfway through their shift, Jon had asked her how she could withstand the unwanted attention. “And besides, you and I both know I could burn down this entire town with one breath in the right spot.”

“I would have burned it down three hours ago.”

“And that,” Pri had smiled, the corners of her mouth wrinkled and weary and her fingers spread wide on his chest, “is why it’s lucky you’re pretty and rich and,” with her eyes dancing down his body, “a man.”

Jon had frowned down, trying to ignore the warmth of her hand seeping through the thin linen shirt Dan had given him to replace his stained dress shirt. “I don’t follow.”

She had just winked, her long lashes fluttering against her cheeks. 

Jon turns to find her now, still smiling brightly, rising onto her tiptoes to wave a flyer at a young couple driving by in their Victoria convertible that must have cost at least a full year of her salary. When they pause, though, she jogs over to them, her harem pants flapping in the wind and her long hair knotted down her back from the dust of a hard day’s work.

That coiled bit of Jon’s conscience pulses and tears and he frowns, rubbing his fist over the ache in his chest as he watches her lean into the passenger side window and hand over the last of her flyers. She grins as they pull away, jogging back to Jon. “Here, give me half of yours. We’re almost done.”

Jon frowns down at the dozen or so flyers still left in his hand. “How do you _do _that? I have a power that literally compels people to listen to me and you still beat me.”

She shrugs. She’s wearing an oversized tunic over her performance pants, belted at the waist just like Alyssa does. On second glance, Jon would almost swear that it _is_ Alyssa’s. “I have been doing this for awhile. Experience beats raw skill, sometimes.”

Jon nods, slowly. “How long have you been doing this?”

She raises an eyebrow. Her eyes are squinting in the high afternoon sun. “Handing out flyers?”

Jon shakes his head. “Working with the circus.”

“Oh.” She looks down, her jaw working quickly, and when she looks up again, her eyes are dark and guarded as if, with one question, Jon has extinguished the flame that keeps her alight. 

Jon desperately wants to take it back, but he doesn’t know how to. “I- I didn’t mean to-“

Pri digs the toe of her red shoe into the dirt next to the sidewalk. “A dozen years, give or take.”

Jon frowns. She doesn’t look a day over twenty-five. “That would have made you-?” He lets the question dangle, only brave enough by half.

“Yeah.” She holds out her hand, wiggling her fingers with as much energy as she had just a few minutes ago. She won’t meet his eyes, though. “Give me half of those.”

“Seems awfully unfair,” Jon sighs, looking down at the stack in his hands. “You shouldn’t suffer for my inefficiencies.”

“Fuck off.” Pri rolls her eyes, reaching for Jon’s hand. Their fingers brush and a little of the tension seeps out of her. “We’re a team, this is how teams work.”

“Oh.”

“Did you-?” Pri grins, her mouth spreading from ear to ear even if the smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes yet. “Have you never been part of a team before?”

“Of course I have,” Jon growls. Jon thinks about his track and field team at Andover. That was a team, except where competition was synonymous with friendship and his time in the 1500 metre determined everything from preferential grades in Latin, to the best cut of the Sunday roast, to the girls who'd give him a second look on Friday night. 

There was also his team at Favreau Industries, a group of men much older than he was who resented having to follow the orders of the boss' son. Jon had always assumed that they respected his skill with clients and, if nothing else, the giant checks he brought in. Looking at it now, though, Jon can see how his easy success must have looked like the laziest victory in a race that was won before Jon had even stepped on the field. “Maybe I haven’t.”

Pri pats his shoulder and grabs half the flyers from his hand before he can stop her. “Watch and learn.”

***

The sun is starting to move westward by the time they’re done handing out the rest of the flyers. Jon’s hands are cut and sore and the sweat has dried on his neck three times over as he throws his linen coat over his shoulder and sets his feet towards their camp, just southwest of downtown Montgomery. Pri, though, seems unbothered by her red, cut-up fingers or the way her tunic sticks to her lower back.

“You’re incredible, you know that?” Jon shakes his head.

Pri snorts, bending down for a handful of stones. They’re walking along the railroad tracks and she skips the first stone along the rails. “I don’t know how much that means, coming from you.”

Jon holds his hand over his heart, lowering his voice to joke, “I’m offended,” and cover the way his heart is pounding in his ears at the implications.

“You should be.” Pri grabs his wrist, dropping three stones into his palm. Her fingers are warm against him, from their day in the sun or the fire flowing through her veins, Jon doesn’t know or much care. “Are you any good?”

“At skipping stones?” Jon raises an eyebrow. “I’m only the reigning champion of the Rabbit Pond stone skipping league.”

Pri raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t you, like, forty?”

“Thirty-two,” Jon glares at her. “And I go back every year. Just when spring is starting to hit and the ice is splitting. It’s never the same surface twice.”

“Hard to imagine how you find a day’s hard work difficult,” she deadpans.

“Fuck off.” Jon nudges her shoulder and points a few hundred yards in front of them. “See the rung up there? At the bend.”

She nods, narrowing her eyes to follow his finger. “There’s no way you’re hitting that.”

“No?” Jon raises an eyebrow. “Wanna bet?”

“Yeah.” She rests her hand on her hip. “What do you want?”

“If I hit the rung, you have to answer one question.” Jon wags a finger at her, adding, “truthfully.”

Pri nods. “And if you don’t?”

“Oh, I’m going to hit it.” Jon squats down, digging through the stones for a perfectly smooth thin one that feels right in his hand. He cracks his knuckles, stretching out his shoulders, before holding his palm out. “Blow on it for luck.”

Pri shakes her head, leaning down to blow on it but snorting with laughter halfway through.

“That kinda ruins the sentiment,” Jon grouses, wiping his hand on his pants.

“Throw the damn thing,” Pri snorts. “And when you don’t hit the rung, you’ll do anything I want for an hour.”

Jon shrugs, “sure,” and takes his stance. He squints into the fading sunlight, pulling his hand back and snapping his wrist. He knows he’s made it before it even rolls off his fingers, and he turns to watch Pri watch it skid along the rungs.

She shields her eyes from the sun, her nails long and chipped in places. She squints, gasping audibly as the stone clanks home at the bend ahead. “You asshole.” She turns, punching his shoulder. “You cheated.”

“Ow.” Jon grabs his shoulder. “How? How the fuck do you cheat at skipping stones?”

“I don’t know,” Pri grumbles, stepping away from him and jogging forward. When she gets to the spot, she squats down, fingering the divot in the railroad rung. “But you definitely did.”

Jon shakes his head and parrots her own words back at her. “I’ve been doing this awhile.”

“Of course you have.” She straightens, shaking her head and taking a step down the path, waiting for him to follow her. “Okay, we made a deal. What do you wanna know?”

Jon hums thoughtfully, as if there’s any other question other than, “why’d you run away and join the circus at, what? thirteen?”

Pri’s step stutters.

“Come on,” Jon wheedles, grinning at her profile. “Everyone jokes about it, right? Running away to join the circus. What made you actually do it?”

Pri turns her face away, but not before Jon sees her eyes shutter for the second time that afternoon. Her foot catches on nothing and he reaches out to catch her, but she steps around him, righting herself and picking up her pace.

“What?” Jon frowns, jogging to keep up with her. “Anything, right? That was our deal.”

Pri shakes her head. “Anything but that.”

“Why-?” Jon frowns at the sharp line of her back, the tightness in her shoulders, the rigidity of her knees. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-“

She shakes her head. Her hair is falling out of her braid and she raises her hand to brush the strands away from her neck. Her hand is shaking. “Forget about it.”

“Yeah, sure.” Jon spreads his hands, palms up. “It’s forgotten.”

She nods, stiffly, and keeps walking. They go half a mile in silence, the chirping of birds and rustle of road workers on the other side of the grove doing nothing to break through the storm in Jon’s head. He hadn’t meant- It had been a nice day. Jon hadn’t thought about the bounty on his head even once, and he’d genuinely enjoyed putting his power to work for a good cause. Even the exhaustion was exhilarating. Much better, for sure, then using it to buy expensive buildings on Newbury Street. Pri even seemed to like him, or, at the very least, seemed to find him tolerably amusing. He hadn’t meant to ruin any of that.

_Curiosity kills the cat_, his mother’s words come back to him. _Curiosity kills the deal,_ his father had corrected, every time. Jon shakes himself.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, as the path curves around the grove trees and they can just make out the top flag of the Big Top a mile or so in the distance. “I didn’t mean to ruin the day.”

She sighs deeply, slowing her pace, finally. “You didn’t.”

“I didn’t want-“

“I was fourteen,” she interrupts. She digs her fingers deep into the pockets of her pants. The reds and oranges of the flames licking her ankles and extending up her thighs is dull with the dust of their travels.

Jon swallows. “You really don’t have to tell me.”

“No,” Pri shakes her head. She still isn’t looking at him. “I really think that I do. I think you need to hear it.”

Jon nods, pushing down a million responses, from a defensive _I’m a great listener _to the dismissive _well, I don’t wanna hear it when you put it like that_, and settles on, “I’m listening.”

She nods. “I was thirteen when we emigrated, fourteen when we arrived in Philadelphia. It wasn’t my parents’ fault. We were in a new country, with new people, they didn’t speak a word of English. My father was a doctor in India. You know what job he could get here?”

She lifts her head to look not quite at him. His chest aches and he has to clear his throat to rid it of the dark regret for asking her and the even darker impulse that still wants to know. “I’m assuming not a doctor.”

She snorts. “He worked at a mill, one of over a thousand working the nightshift. Twelve hours a day, six days a week until his hands bled and broke. He’ll never be able to practice medicine again.”

Jon swallows. He’s seen mills like that. Hell, he’s bought and sold mills like that. “That’s awful.”

“He did what he had to do,” Pri shrugs. “He kept food on the table and a roof over our heads and it was still a better life than we left.”

“Until?”

“Until my sister got sick.” Pri shudders. “Tuberculosis. To this day, I don’t know how she got it. No one else at school or in the tenements- Anyway, ends were suddenly not meeting. That’s when he showed up.”

Jon shies away from what he knows is coming, but Pri keeps her shoulders steady, brushing just lightly against his.

“He wore a top hat and a velvet-lined coat and he oozed money. He promised to save us. Our white savior, my mom used to call him.” 

She trails off, her eyes dark and far away.

Jon ducks his head to see her flushed cheeks, her hair framing her heated skin. “And did he?”

She nods jerkily. “He got my father a manager’s job at the mill, put my sister in the best treatment facility in Philadelphia, found a well-paying seamstress job for my mother. Only-“

Jon chokes.

“Only I was the cost.” She looks up, into Jon’s eyes. “I was only fourteen. I didn’t know what I was getting into.”

“Priyanka-“

“I didn’t mean to do it. It wasn’t- I didn’t even _know _that I had a power.” She lifts her chin, her eyes flashing with the red and yellow of the flames within her.

Jon can’t swallow around the lump in his throat. “Did he-?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “The minute he touched me, I-“ She looks down at her hands. “I didn’t know what had happened. My whole body felt hot and then the room was on fire. He lived in this three story townhouse- I don’t know if any of it survived.”

“Did he?” 

“I don’t know.” Pri shrugs. “I ran and I kept running and I never looked back.”

“Not once?”

Pri shakes her head. “Elijah found me in the forest the next morning. I was miles from Philadelphia. He bandaged my feet and never asked about the singes on my nightdress. Never asked any questions, really.”

Jon’s chest thuds. _Elijah_. He can’t be certain, he can’t know- what impossible circumstances that she’s talking about the same Elijah Jon had befriended with a turkey leg and a kindred spirit all those years ago. The same Elijah that had come to him in the middle of a hallucination during the darkest night of his life not so many weeks ago. It would be the most impossible of coincidences, except- Except that Jon’s only ever met one boy with his soul in his eyes and a heart that big.

“He just took me back to the Batty Brothers. Gave me food and a wagon and an act and that was that.” She laughs a little. “Sorry you asked now?”

“No.” Jon shakes his head. “No, I’m not. You really are incredible, Pri.”

She blushes and ducks her head, bumping her shoulder against his. “Enough about me. Tell me more about these skipping stone contests. What were the prizes like? I bet they were something ridiculous. Like a scepter.”

Jon snorts. “Not quite.” He looks sideways at her, the way her smile doesn’t quite reach the edges of her eyes. He digs through his mind for the most ridiculous stories, and dives in. Only when he startles a laugh out of her, and then another, and then another does his chest start to ease.

***

"Better,” Dan nods. They're two days into a three night stint in Birmingham and the benches are a little worse for wear. The crowd the night before had been particularly rowdy and Dan kicks styrofoam cups away as he crosses his ankles on top of the bench in the row in front of him. "Remember to project with your voice as well as your power."

Jon nods. He still feels stupid standing in an empty ring, yelling to a tent full of row upon row of empty benches. He clears his throat though, channeling his power through his words and trying to project. “Welcome ladies, gentlemen, children, and anyone else I may have missed. You’re in for a night of wonder at the Batty Brothers circus.”

Dan balances his toes on the edge of the bench, drawing his knee to his chest. The hem of his pant leg pulls up and Jon can see a new tattoo twisted around his ankle, words that Jon can’t quite read clearly but thinks are the closing line of Lovett’s Hooverville song. “You’re not saying it right.”

Jon frowns. “I memorized the script you gave me.”

Dan rolls his eyes. “It’s not about the script. The script is a guideline.”

“But-“

“It doesn’t matter what you say-“

Jon glares. “The words always matter.”

“- it matters how you say them,” Dan continues, unabated. He stands, running his palms over his thighs to straighten out his pants, and walks slowly towards Jon. “There is nothing _less magical_ than claiming that a show is magical if you don’t really believe it.”

Jon frowns. “I _do_ believe it.”

Dan shrugs easily. “Then let’s hear it.”

Jon sighs, spreading his knees and resting his hands on his hips. He takes a deep breath, letting it out with every decibel he has, “welcome ladies, gentleman, children-“

“Stop, stop, my god.” Dan leans back in his seat, his shoulders tightening. “Saying it louder definitely doesn’t make it more magical.”

Jon lets his hands dangle at his sides. “I don’t know what you’re looking for.”

“_Magic_.”

“Yeah, see,” Jon shakes his head, “that’s not nearly as helpful as you think it is.”

“You’ll know it when you feel it.”

“That’s not helpful either.”

“Kinda sucks to be you, doesn’t it?” Dan takes another step back. “Try again. Target the last bench in the back but not the cook tent outside.

Jon sighs, adjusting his stance towards the highest row of benches, “welcome all,” and freezes. Standing in the doorway is a lanky man, dressed in a plaid shirt, buttoned high on his neck and rolled at the sleeves, over a pair of stained jeans. His hair is curling around his ears and his beard covers half his face. His eyes- Jon would recognize those eyes anywhere. Jon chokes as he takes an aborted step forward. “Who is that?”

“Hmm?” Dan follows Jon’s gaze and grins. He waves his hand as he calls, “Elijah, come in here!”

Elijah’s gone before Jon can swivel his head back to look at him again.

“Elijah’s a quiet guy,” Dan shrugs. He says, slowly, in a tone that suggests he knows that Jon knows all this already. “He’s a genius with animals, though, runs our menagerie. He hasn’t introduced himself yet?”

“Ahh,” Jon thrashes around for a fib, knowing just as clearly that Dan knows the answer to this, too. “Not yet. Pri talks about him a lot, though.”

Dan snorts, and it sounds genuine this time. “Pri doesn’t know where her talents lie, but she is persistent.”

“Yeah.” Jon swallows, thinking about Pri’s straight shoulders and dark eyes and the way she smiled - small and easy and unbidden, much as Dan’s doing now - when she talked about Elijah.

Dan glances down at his wrist. There’s a tattoo of a watch under the cuff of his shirt, but no battery-powered watch to be seen. “Fuck, it’s late. I’ve got a meeting with the boss. I want you to watch the show tonight.”

“I-“

“You can’t possibly be expected to talk about it if you haven’t fucking seen it, so, stop pretending that you have,” Dan interrupts forcefully. “Show’s at 7. Tommy will pick you up at your wagon at 6:45.”

He doesn’t wait for Jon to agree before he turns on his heel and is gone.

***

The tent is crowded. Not-a-seat-left-in-the-house kind of crowded. The masses part, though, when they see Tommy, shying away from his large shoulders and his _I belong here_ aura. Jon follows him. He doesn’t quite have Tommy’s gravitas, but he does smile at every person they pass, nodding and thanking them for coming with every bit of his power behind his words. 

“You’re dangerous,” Tommy observes as he takes a seat five rows up, centered on the ring.

Jon sits next to him, their shoulders, knees, and elbows pressed together as the paying ticket holders fill in around them. Jon raises an eyebrow, a little lingering power in the gesture. “How?”

Tommy snorts. “That works on a lot of people, huh?”

In Jon’s experience, it’s worked on almost everyone. Men and women in ballrooms and bars and restaurants all throughout Boston, rooms rimmed with tea lights and filled with champagne and crystal and laughter. Jon owned those rooms, owned them in a way he’ll never own this ring and these rows of unwashed and ill-mannered people and the magic of … something he’s not sure he’ll ever get. Jon sighs. “It did work on a lot of people, yes. Not so much anymore.”

“Just gotta work a little harder, that’s all,” Tommy shrugs, easy and loose. He’s wearing a sleeveless linen shirt, gaping over his collarbone, and acres of pale skin flex and flush as he does so.

Jon forces himself to look away. “I’ve been hearing a lot of that lately, too.”

“Probably something you should listen to then."

Jon frowns. “What does that mean?”

Tommy shrugs again. His collarbone is an enticing shade of pink, betraying his casualness. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Tommy-“

Tommy shakes his head, nodding at the ring. “Dan said you haven’t seen a show, yet.”

Jon reluctantly lets their conversation drop and turns to look. There’s a thrill in his chest when he looks at the ring, anticipation and wonder thrumming through him and down his arms, settling in the spot where his and Tommy’s shoulders are pressed together. 

“You’re in for a treat,” Tommy grins. “Ours is the best show in the land.”

“Barnum and Bailey and the Ringling Brothers would beg to differ.” Jon laughs, turning from the ring to raise an eyebrow at him.

Tommy scoffs. “They don’t know what they’re missing.”

“Sure,” Jon snorts. “I look forward to seeing for myself. Speaking of, you’re not in the ring today?”

Tommy shakes his head. “Dan likes to give me a show off every week for my muscles to recover, power or no power. This seemed like as good a show as any.”

“That’s a shame,” Jon shrugs, looking Tommy up and down. He feels his power trickle into his voice, unbidden and futile. “I would have liked to have seen it.”

“Still not going to work on me,” Tommy snorts. “And you’ll just have to come another time.”

“Maybe,” Jon agrees, swallowing. “If I-“

He stops mid-sentence as a hush falls over the crowd.

It’s quite something, Jon thinks, the cacophony of thousands of voices silencing in turn. Breathes catching and feet shifting forwards, attentions shifting and then all drawn to the northeast side of the ring. Two elephants enter first, wearing elaborate headdresses of dazzling silk and jewels that shine off the overhead lights. Dan’s sitting atop the first one, his long legs spreading around the creature’s neck, his pants rolled up to show off the tattoos twisting around his ankles and traveling up his calves.

Dan’s entire outfit is designed in contrasts. A top hat and tails on his suit, at odds with the white shirt open low on his chest and gaping over a mass of tattoos across his collarbone. Suit pants with a velvet stripe, as tailored as anything Jon has seen in Boston, but pulled tight across his thighs and short enough to show off his ankles. It’s all on show as he slides off the elephant’s back and lands gracefully in the hay, tipping his hat with a low bow.

“Welcome, Birmingham, to the greatest show on earth,” Dan calls out, his voice booming through the tent. “Sit back, relax, because the things you’re about to see will amaze your eyes and set your imagination on fire. If you allow me, I’ll be your guide through this world of wonder. Are you with me?”

The crowd cheers wildly. Jon finds himself stamping his feet and clapping his hands right along with them.

Tommy nudges their knees together. “He’s magical, isn’t he?”

Jon nods, turning to Tommy, his eyes wide and his cheeks flushed. “The way he holds this crowd-”

Tommy grins. “A different kind of power.”

Tommy doesn’t pull his knee away as Dan introduces their first acts. Jon watches with wide eyes, his elbows on his knees and leaning closer and closer and closer as Dan guides the crowd through a journey of wonders. Big cats jumping through rings of fire. Pigs dancing synchronously in leis and tutus. An acrobat somersaulting across the highwire. Lovett, weaving between it all, adding commentary to each act and doing sets in-between. He grins, dragging the audience into laughter as he makes dark jokes about Birmingham’s history after the Civil War and sings about the newest public works bill passed by President Roosevelt. Jon looks around, worried and waiting for a riot, but most of the crowd is chatting happily, too full on popcorn and cotton candy and sugary sodas to see beyond Lovett’s red nose and flushed, painted cheeks.

When Dan steps back into the ring to call intermission, Jon has to shake himself. He can still see glitter and pomp dancing across his eye-lids as he turns to Tommy, and he’s absolutely sure it shows in his eyes.

Tommy smirks knowingly. “What do you think?”

“It’s-“ Jon whispers, tossing around for words and rejecting each one, before settling on, “amazing.”

Tommy grins. “You’re getting there, but Dan’s right, it’s a tone thing.”

Jon glares at him. “My tone is fine.”

“Sure it is,” Tommy shrugs. “Maybe it’s a Boston thing. You are from Boston, right?”

The couple next to them is vigorously praising the high rope walkers, and Jon is having a hard time thinking beyond the exclamations of _wasn’t that amazing?_ and cries of _the way she flew through the air _and_ his costume, that was incredible_ circling around him. It’s so congruous with what he remembers of anything in his life before now.

Jon nods. “Yeah. I grew up in Beacon Hill. Lived there until a few weeks ago.”

“Me too.” Tommy shrugs. “I mean, I grew up in Boston. Not quite Beacon Hill, but, Newton.”

Jon’s eyes widen, the crowd lowering to a dull throb as he looks at Tommy. “You grew up in Newton?”

“Been a long time since I thought about it,” Tommy shrugs. “But, I did.”

“I didn’t-“

“Expect someone from Newton to voluntarily join the circus?” Tommy fills in the blank Jon had left. “Well, sometimes circumstances are circumstances.”

Jon frowns. “That's not what I meant."

"It was. I know men like you. I was a man like you." Tommy smiles sideways at him, the corner of his mouth curling up. 

It shivers through Jon like he's nothing more than a wisp of facts and experiences, built brick-by-brick on the outside of his skin. Like there's nothing solid to him but Beacon Hill and his father's realty company held together by the transparent tape of predictability. Glass houses, Jon thinks, as Tommy lays him bare with a single smile, taking everything Jon's thought is unique and interesting about himself and tossing it aside as mundane and routine. Jon feels worse than naked, he feels like skin and bones, the bare minimum of existence without anything that makes him human.

Tommy's smile softens, like he understands Jon's skeleton as well as the rest of him, and Jon wants to be worth more than that pitying smile. He doesn't know what to say, though. He doesn't know what words are his and what words have been fed to him for the past two decades.

"So," Tommy offers, an out that Jon couldn't be more grateful for, "last time I stole a look at a newspaper was Albuquerque. Sox were 2nd in the League?"

"4th," Jon sighs. "In the American. Not our season."

"Sucks." Tommy turns back to the ring as the lights start to dim. "Been an awfully long time since I've been to a game."

"We should go sometime," Jon suggests, louder than he'd meant to as crowd hushes and shushes him, louder, Jon's pretty sure, than his words were. He frowns back at them, until Tommy nudges his shoulder and Jon turns, looking up.

He feels the hush settle deep into what's left of his own body as he's ensnared in the scene in the ring. Or, above the ring. There's a small platform, not more than a couple feet squared, at least thirty feet above them, and Jon can just make out two women dressed in silver and red sequined leotards standing precariously on its edges.

As Jon watches, Emily pushes off, her toes curling around the wood briefly before she arcs gracefully through the tent. Her legs are perfectly straight, cutting through the air like she was always meant to be in the sky, before she flips over the trapeze and stands on the tiny strip of wood. Jon's breath catches as she jumps, free-falling through the air, tumbling towards Tanya, who's swinging towards her with equal grace, except-

"She's not going to make it," Jon gaps, his leg pressing into Tommy's as he leans forward to urge Emily just those extra few inches. "Tanya can't see her. She's not going to know she has to readjust-"

"She's going to be fine," Tommy promises, laughter coating his words.

"She's not." Jon's heart is in his throat, his chest heaving and the hairs on the back of his neck tingling and cold. "She's not. _Tommy_, we've gotta _do_ something."

Tommy's hand is wide on Jon's knee. “Do you have some acrobatic skills we don't know about?"

"No," Jon grumbles, his breath catching again as Tanya holds her arms out and catches Emily's wrists, swinging her gracefully through the air.

“Then it’s probably a good thing Tanya’s up there and you’re down here,” Tommy chuckles. “Seeing as T’s the best trapeze artist east or west of the Mississippi.”

The tent erupts in _ooh_s and _ahh_s. Jon asks, breathlessly, "how does she _do_ that?,” but doesn't wait for Tommy's response. He watches - as Tanya does a triple somersault, as Emily dangles on the edges of her fingers, as Tanya holds herself five feet above the trapeze for an acrobatics routine - without breathing or blinking.

"Wow," Jon breathes, when Emily and Tanya land back on their tiny platform, their arms around each other, to bask in the thunderous applause. "Welcome to the circus."

"That," Tommy grins, pointing at him, "is how you're supposed to say it."

***


	6. Nashville to Atlanta

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Atlanta Braves weren’t a team in 1934, but, handwave for the sake of narrative efficiency (i.e. I discovered that too far along in the writing process)

**Nashville, Tennessee 1934**

Jon wipes his palms on the jeans he’d borrowed from Tommy. They’re baggy around his thighs and tight around his waist, but they’re the right length and they soak up the sweat pouring off his hands better than silk or linen. 

He pauses at the edge of the tent. The troupe had arrived in Nashville long after three am, but the tents were all up before breakfast was ready. Jon was up with the set-up crew to get in a training session, before he begged off breakfast to base back and forth in front of the menagerie tent. 

There’s a trumpeting sound from the other side of the canvas and Jon takes a deep breath, wipes his palms on his thighs again, and steps inside.

The menagerie is exactly and nothing like he remembers. Cages line the left side, filled with big cats and exotic birds, squawking for their morning meal as two workers pass between them with buckets of fish and weeds. Two giraffes, looking somehow even taller than they did when Jon was eight, are tied to the center poll, their long necks bent to eat the patch of grass at their feet, their muscles working hard as they chew.

Jon turns his feet towards them, immediately, already thumbing the bit of cinnamon stick he’d begged off of Michael, before he’s stopped. Because in the center of the ring are two elephants, their bejeweled headdresses a little askew and both looking more interested in sleep than in circling the ring. Jon hears a giggle from high on top of them and he cranes his neck to see Pri, her legs spread across the neck of the bigger elephant, her hands twisted in the tie of the headdress.

“Watch me,” she calls, her voice ringing through the tent. As Jon does what she says, she pulls her ankles under her thighs, her shoulders wobbling as she struggles to stand.

“Be careful. Michael will have my head if you end up in the medical tent one more time before we even reach Virginia.”

The words are accompanied by a heavy sigh and Jon’s head snaps towards him. Elijah’s standing outside of the ring, his hand in the lion’s box, petting a very pregnant lioness slowly and calmly. He’s wearing the same high-buttoned flannel he was wearing a few days ago, hugging tight and low over his hips, his beard looking clean and combed. His eyes are the same dark, all-seeing brown that Jon remembers and, for a brief moment, Jon’s thrown fifteen years into the past, his chest warming in the same way it had that day, confronted with the first and only kindred spirit he’d ever met or has met since.

Then Pri lets out a surprised cry and Jon turns just in time to see her stand on one, shaky ankle and push off. Her soft ballet flats slip over the elephant’s leathery skin and she lands halfway through her first somersault, her thighs thudding against the elephant’s neck and her back scraping down its trunk as she falls to the hay below her.

Jon’s already two steps towards her before he hears Elijah sigh. “Michael’s going to withhold sex for a month.”

Pri giggles, standing up as shakily as she’d fallen, hay sticking in the messy bun atop her head and into her tunic. All the skin that Jon can see - at her ankles and her wrists and down her collarbone - is scratched, but Pri is grinning as she raises her hands above her head with a, “ta da,” before turning to Elijah. “From me, probably, not from you.”

Elijah shakes his head, stepping forward to carefully brush the hay out of her hair, his fingers gentle and lingering along her hairline. “I don’t understand why swallowing swords isn’t enough for you.”

Pri sighs, lifting her chin for him. “It’s so _boring_.”

Elijah snorts, pulling the last bit of hay from Pri’s tunic and kissing the side of her mouth. “I assure you, yours is the most exciting act in the show.”

“I can endorse that,” Jon says, his voice shaking a little as he steps forward. He flashes back to the show in Houston, to the way Pri stood in the center of the ring, nothing surrounding her but the hush of the crowd. She’d been wearing her flame-embroidered harem pants, the patches matching the lap of flames between her lips, red and orange and yellow flicking in front of her around a blazing center of blue. Jon can still hear the way the crowd had thundered to applause as she’d produced the sword from behind her back and swallowed it with the flames.

Pri flicks her eyes towards him. “Of course you do.”

Jon flushes, pushing away the picture that comes to him, of Pri on his first day with the troupe, topless and flushed with mischief, overlayed with the image of her here, flushed with pleased exertion. He forces himself to shrug casually. “It was exciting. Flames are always exciting.”

“It’d be more exciting if I could swallow a sword while _riding atop an elephant_,” she pushes. “Or maybe while doing a triple loop on her back?”

Elijah wraps an arm around Pri’s shoulders and pushes her forward. “Why don’t you master riding her first?”

Pri sighs deeply. “I’m _trying_.”

“And you’ll keep trying,” Elijah sighs, “no matter what I say. Will you at least go see Michael to make sure that you haven’t ruptured anything?”

Pri frowns, bending down to brush at the hay on her knees. “I’m fine. It was a small fall.”

“From ten feet in the air,” Elijah shakes his head. “I rescind the question. Go see Michael or I’ll tell Dan you can’t perform tonight.”

Pri crosses her arms across her chest. “You wouldn’t.”

“I really would.” Elijah’s eyes flick towards Jon, flashes of familiar green and brown under the low tent lights. “Go, Michael will be waiting for you.”

Pri sighs deeply and sidesteps him, shaking hay out of her fire pants as she warns, “I’ll be back. I’m going to be perfect one of these days.”

Elijah shakes his head, “I’m sure you will,” and watches her go until the canvas closes with a heavy thump. The moment she’s out of sight, his shoulders tighten and he turns on his heel, crossing his arms across his chest.

“Ahh.” Jon swallows. He feels his power thrumming under his skin, useless and debilitating under Elijah’s knowing stare. “Hi. I- You’ve been avoiding me.”

Elijah shakes his head, reaching for a bucket of fly-ridden fish and carrying it over to the big cat cages. His arms bunch and strengthen with the strain. “You weren’t seeking me out, either.”

“No.” Jon nods, holding himself back from taking the other side of the bucket and instead grabbing his own bucket. It’s heavy, much heavier than Jon was expecting, and he just barely manages to keep it from tipping over. He crouches on the ground, grimacing as he picks up the fish that had tipped out. “No, I wasn’t. I didn’t- I didn’t know if it was you or not.”

Elijah drops a fish into the first tiger’s cage. He doesn’t meet Jon’s eyes. “And am I? The boy you remembered?”

“I don’t know yet.” Jon follows him, reaching his hand halfway into the bars. “Can I touch her?”

Elijah turns back, still not catching Jon’s eyes as he reaches in, petting the tiger between her ears and murmuring softly. “Under her chin.”

Jon steps forward, his shoulder almost brushing Elijah’s as he pauses at the edge of the bars. “You could be tricking me.”

“Won’t know until you try,” Elijah shrugs.

Jon sighs, feeling like he’s taking his life - both the life he’d built for himself under his father’s watchful eye and the life he’d dreamed of when he’d first met Elijah and is just starting to imagine that he can make into a reality - into his own hands. He takes a breath, stretching his hand into the cage, holding it as the tiger sniffs, her eyes flashing golden brown and dangerous. One word from Elijah, Jon knows, and her instincts will take over. So, Jon guesses, it’s more accurate to think of this as putting his life in _Elijah’s _hands.

Jon looks up, catching Elijah’s eyes as he deliberately pushes further into the cage, scratching under the tiger’s chin with only a few nerves shaking through his arm.

The tiger purrs, raising her head to give Jon a better angle. Jon grins at both the cat and at Elijah. “So, you _don’t_ hate me.”

Elijah reaches into his bucket and tosses it through the next set of bars. “Holding back a tiger bite is a low bar.”

“Did I clear it?” Jon pushes.

“Does it feel like you did?” Elijah takes a step further, reaching for a particularly gnarly slab of fish.

Jon digs his fingers into the tiger’s fur in his frustration. She growls, her teeth snapping just inches from his wrist and he jumps back, pulling his wrist through the bars, knocking his hand with a painful clang. “Not particularly.”

“Then let’s assume you didn’t.”

Jon frowns. He grabs his own bucket and follows Elijah slowly, tossing fish haphazardly through the bars. Half of them hit the metal with a splat and fall limply to the grass.

Elijah sighs, turning to wrap his fingers around Jon’s wrist. His fingers are warm and calloused, as gentle as they were when he was a boy, and Jon remembers- He remembers darkness, the sound and feel and chill of it, the weight and the fear of emptiness, the disappointment in Elijah’s voice filtering through the void, garbled and unintelligible, but definitely his. Jon’s frown deepens. “You were in the wagon with me. After I was poisoned. I woke up, before Tanya was there, I woke up and you were there, too.”

Elijah’s eyes shudder and he tears his hand away, drawing back quickly. “I was.”

“You-“ Jon shakes his head. “You were the one who saved me from the bounty. I mean, technically it was Michael who made the poison and Tommy who did the actual kidnapping, but, it was you, wasn’t it?”

“I owed you a debt,” Elijah shrugs. “You showed me a kindness. Now that debt is repaid.”

Jon tries to push through the darkness in his memory, but it’s all hazy edges and obscured voices. “What did I say? When I woke up, what did I say to you?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Elijah shakes his head, tossing the next fish in without looking.

“Of course it matters.” Jon shakes his head. “You wanted to save me, then I said something, and now it seems like you wish you hadn’t.”

Elijah raises an eyebrow, putting more feeling into the motion than Jon’s father speaks with in a year. “Did I?”

“Stop doing that.” Jon sighs deeply, throwing his hands in the air. “Stop turning every question back on me. I’m _trying_ here.”

“You’re not.” Elijah shakes his head, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re making assumptions. You made assumptions then and you’re making assumptions now. Men like you always think you know everything.”

Jon scowls. “Men like me?”

“Men like you.” Elijah steps backwards, leaving his bucket and reaching for the reigns of the giraffes tied to the center stake. “I never said that I wanted to save you, you just can’t imagine a world where I wouldn’t.”

Jon gapes at Elijah’s soft brown eyes and tight shoulders, at the giraffe towering magnificently over his shoulder. “But you said-“

“I said that I saved you,” Elijah corrects. “I never said I wanted to. Not when- You’ll bring fire down upon us all.”

Alyssa’s words, the blaze of her eyes, the strength of her fingers around the tarot cards and the surety in her voice filter back to him. Jon’s spine shivers and, above him, the lights flicker. “That’s what Alyssa said.”

“Alyssa’s never wrong.” Elijah tightens the reins around his hands. “I owed you a debt, and I’m going to pay for it with everything that matters in my life. But good men repay their debts, no matter the cost.”

“Elijah-”

Elijah catches his eyes for the first time, flashes of green and gold in molten centers. “Were you worth saving, Jonathan Favreau?”

Jon opens his mouth to say _of course I was _or to present the laundry list of accomplishments he’s been running through his head since Lovett first made him start questioning himself or maybe, even, just to say _I never forgot you_. They all sound shallow, defensive, like the exact thing Elijah’s accusing him of though, so Jon closes his mouth again.

Elijah tugs on the reins, pulling the giraffes forward. “That’s what I thought.”

***

“I had a dream about you last night,” Alyssa says, crossing her legs under the table. She doesn’t look up at Pri, still focused on the breakfast of beans, corn, and bread squares in front of her.

Jon misses pork chops and chicken pot pies and boiled ham and, well, anything that isn’t made entirely out of grains and stale bread. They haven’t had anything else in over a week and won’t for a few more days until they refill their supplies in Atlanta. Jon’s hoping for wheels of cheese, but, he’s not expecting anything more than another hundred cans of black beans.

Pri grins, sliding onto the bench next to Jon and jostling his shoulder. She doesn’t look any worse for wear from her fall as she waggles her eyebrows. “I hope I was naked in it.”

Alyssa snorts. “You were showing off more than I would have liked, yes, as you were tumbling off a giraffe’s neck, 20 feet in the air.”

Pri takes a bite of her corn and talks through it. "Did I at least complete a somersault first?"

"Pri-"

"Or a double," Pri interrupts, her cheeks pinched with a grin. "Please tell me it was a double."

"Sure," Alyssa sighs. "Let's say it was a double. It was hard to remember while you were lying on the ground, half your bones broken."

Pri winks at Michael across the table. "I'm sure Michael fixed me up."

Michael sighs, glaring at Alyssa. "It wasn't a vision. It's my daily fucking nightmare."

Alyssa shrugs and reaches easily for her bowl. "I made it as scary as I could."

"It could use a little work," Pri shrugs, pulling her ankles under her and leaning her elbow on the table so she can point forcefully at Michael. "And you should stop making others do your dirty work."

Lovett nudges Michael's side. "Told you we should have practiced."

Jon hides his laughter in his wrist, choking on his beans. Pri slaps his back, glaring across the table. "Even Jon thinks you're too ridiculous to take seriously."

Jon's eyes are watering. "I was supposed to take that seriously?"

"Yes," Michael sighs in exasperation. "Pri's taking her life into her hands every time she practices on top of one of those elephants."

"Oh relax," Pri sighs. "I can barely stand upright, there's very little practicing going on."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" Michael sighs. 

"Yes."

"Well it doesn't."

"I'm really torn up about that." Pri sits back on her heels. "Seeing as I didn't ask for your opinion."

"Pri-"

“I’ll deal with you in a minute,” she warns, turning her attention to Jon. “Tommy was looking for you this morning. He’s in the training tent.”

Jon is half-tempted to ignore her, to stay and watch her eviscerate Michael, but before Jon can melt into the table and stay, unnoticed, Lovett climbs off the bench. “I’ll walk you.” Pundit lifts her head, her eyes sorrowful as she stretches, then jumps down after him. 

Jon takes his last spoonful of corn, pushing the rest of his beans towards Pri, before following him. “Didn’t you wanna stay and watch that?”

“A food fight between Michael and Pri?” Lovett shrugs. “They’ve taken over my nights, I don’t need to see them in the morning, too. Honestly, last night, I thought the hooch might even get caught in the middle. The hooch Michael spent most of the last decade perfecting. That hooch is his _baby_.”

Jon laughs. “Can’t imagine why.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that.” Lovett looks behind him exaggeratedly. “You don’t have any brownie points to lose.”

Jon’s foot catches on a clod of dirt. Elijah’s words, _you’ll bring fire down upon us all_, filter back to him, but he pushes them away in favor of the indignation that settles so warm and familiar around his shoulder. “I have to have at least a few by now.”

Lovett raises an eyebrow. “For submitting to the training you should have started originally?”

Jon frowns and tries, “for being a fun guy?”

“I’m on your side, here, but, you’ve really gotta come up with something better than that.” Lovett snorts, turning to press his palm to Jon’s chest. “This is my stop.”

Jon looks up, his eyes sticking on the menagerie sign. His heart pounds, remembering the disappointment in Elijah’s eyes. Distantly, he hears a whoosh of canvas, and by the time he looks back down he just catches the tip of Pundit’s tail before the flap closes behind her. Jon swallows, forcing his feet to move on, towards the practice tent, away from Elijah and the grip he has on Jon’s heart.

“There you are,” Em’s voice booms throughout the tent, the words staggered around her short breath. “We’ve been waiting.”

“Not exactly on bated breath,” Tanya snorts. She turns in his direction, her milky eyes settling on him unerringly. 

Jon shivers, forcing himself to take a step forward. He hasn’t seen her since he woke up in her wagon in Austin. He’s almost certain that he didn’t give her the best impression then and, judging by the way he’s staring now, he’s not making a great one now either.

He sighs, moving to sit next to her and then, as she raises a pointed eyebrow, choosing a seat two away. “Ahh, Pri just found me. What have I missed?”

“Just idiots,” Tanya shrugs, crossing her ankles elegantly over the bench in front of her and pulling her kaftan tighter around her. “Being idiots. Has Tommy dropped her yet? They’ve tried that move at least five times.”

“Ahh.” Jon looks out at the training ring. It’s covered in a foot of hay - to, Jon grimaces just thinking about it, muffle a fall - that crinkles and swishes as Tommy’s ankles wobble. He’s wearing linen pants, hanging low on his hips, and no shirt. His muscles bunch and pull with strength as he tries to keep them steady. “I don’t think Tommy’s the problem.”

Tanya snorts, folding her hands in her lap. “Of course he’s not.”

“A little loyalty would be appreciated,” Emily calls. Her shoulders shift where they’re pressed against Tommy’s, back to back, with nothing but both their strengths holding her up.

Tommy takes a step to the side to counteract her movement. “If you’d, please, talk less and focus more?”

Tanya giggles. “You’re doing great, loves. Both of you.”

Emily blows Tanya a kiss. Her hair is hanging halfway down Tommy’s back and her finger gets caught in it as she raises her hand again. Her legs split, scissoring from their perfect handstand, and Tommy takes a wild step forward to re-balance them.

Emily squeezes her core, using the momentum to somersault off of Tommy’s shoulders and onto the ground with a graceful thump. She sighs. “At least I didn’t fall.”

Tommy wipes his hands on his pants. His skin is flushed but he’s barely broken a sweat. “If you tell him, Michael might reward you for that.”

“Also might break your leg himself after he finds out what you’re up to,” Tanya muses. “Not that I’m opposed to that scenario.”

Emily spreads her hand across her chest. “And do our act without me?”

Tanya shrugs. “However will I survive?”

“You wouldn’t,” Em shrugs easily. “We’d have to throw a lovely little funeral, with roses-”

“I hate roses.”

Em ignores her. “And long, poetic eulogies. I’ll get Lovett to write them.”

“I hate long, drawn out anything.”

“Or maybe Jon would write them.” Emily winks in his direction, before tipping her hair back and tying it up into an elaborate bun. She sighs deeply. “Would you still love me if I cut off all my hair?”

Tanya snorts, sliding out of her seat and stepping over Jon’s knees unerringly. “Probably more, honestly.” She offers Emily her elbow. “We should hurry to breakfast before it’s all gone.”

“Don’t worry,” Jon sighs, “you wouldn’t be missing much. It’s just beans and corn again.”

Emily lights up, “there’s corn?,” and pulls Tanya with her out of the tent.

Jon sighs, “simple pleasures,” and stands himself. The tent is quiet, now, and his hands are sweating. He wipes them on his pants as he takes the steps down to the ring.

Tommy’s back is to him, his muscles straining and flushed pink as he hastily pulls a shirt over his head. “Sometimes that’s all we have.”

Jon frowns. “You seem to have a lot here.”

Tommy shrugs. “It’s not the easiest, sometimes, for circus folk. People don’t like us much.”

“Sure,” Jon agrees, not entirely sure why he’s pushing, except, he’d probably eat beans and corn for the next 364 days if Emily looked at him the way she looks at Tommy. “But the people here like you just fine.”

“That’s true.” Tommy grabs the ropes from the ground and pulls them over his shoulder, taking a step towards the exit and waiting for Jon to follow him. “I am very lucky.”

“Yeah.” Jon swallows. He wipes his hands on his thighs again. “So, ahh, Pri said you were looking for me?”

“Oh.” Tommy loses his mellow demeanor, his eyes lighting up and his cheeks pinking with a new kind of flush. “I wanted to ask you- we’ll be in Atlanta at the end of the week.”

“Will we?” Jon frowns. Since he dragged Lovett bodily back from New Orleans, he hasn’t asked about their schedule and, generally, has only known the towns by the marketing posters Dan’s still making him hang on every fence and street lamp. “I’ve never been to Atlanta.”

“That’s even better,” Tommy grins. “I checked the schedule, and there’s a game Thursday night. We have the matinee, but if we wash quickly we should be able to get there in time for the opening pitch.”

Jon freezes, so quickly his toes scuff against a clump of grass. “Baseball?”

Tommy rubs the back of his neck. “It’s not the Red Sox, but, I thought you might like to go?”

“I’d love to,” Jon interrupts, as fast as his voice will allow him. “Wow, Tommy, thank you for inviting me.”

“No problem.” Tommy shrugs. “I’m glad you wanna come.”

Jon grins, so wide his cheeks are hurting. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

***

Jon settles in his seat, his knees pressed almost to his nose and his arms laden with Cracker Jacks and precariously dressed hot dogs. Tommy squeezes in next to him, his shoulders pressed inwards between Jon and the rowdy young man on his other side. 

He hands over Jon's beer, squeezing his elbow into his side to get the right angle. "Sorry about the seats."

Jon motions out towards the field, where the players look like ants dressed in red and white and pinstripe, the ball barely a blur passed back and forth between splotches of leather. “Aerial view.”

Tommy smiles at him in amazement. “You can even make these nosebleeds seem as desirable as tickets to the World Cup. You could sell ice to an eskimo.”

“Only if I believe it,” Jon frowns.

Tommy raises an eyebrow out at the field. “And you believe this?”

Jon shrugs, following Tommy’s gaze. He’s been to hundreds of Red Sox games in the boxes of his father’s wealthy friends. The field was closer, the players’ faces visible in the right light, and the games were filled with salmon puffs and endless bottles of the best bourbon and lively conversation. But, as Jon takes a bite of his hot dog, it tastes better than any perfectly-steamed salmon puff. As he looks out on the field below, Atlanta hits a triple and Jon can watch the whole thing unfold rather than only his one small corner of the field. 

As the crowd stands to cheer, popcorn tumbling out of Jon’s arms and beer spilling over Tommy’s fingers, Tommy grins at him, his face ruddy and flushed, and it feels better than any meaningless attempts at small talk with his father’s wealthy friends.

Jon bumps Tommy’s shoulder, holding out the other half of his hot dog. “Best seats I’ve ever had. Truly.”

Tommy eats the hot dog in one bite as he sits back down. His knee is pressed even closer to Jon’s, his body heat seeping through the linen. “That’s awfully kind of you.”

“The truth,” Jon promises. “Not kindness.”

Tommy catches his eyes, “the truth isn’t often kind,” before he looks away, too quickly for Jon to see more than a flash in his irises.

“Neither are lies,” Jon sighs. “I used to come to games with my father all the time. Started when I was eight. I thought- I thought he liked sharing them with me.”

Tommy frowns. “I’m sure he did.”

“He wanted to share me with his clients,” Jon shakes his head. On the field, Atlanta strikes out, stranding men on second and third. The crowd groans and Jon feels it rippling through his chest. “A few well-placed words from a clumsy little kid with a secret power can go a long way.”

Tommy swallows, his throat rippling where it disappears into his shirt, and he hands over the mostly-full beer. “That’s a bastardization of the sport.”

Jon laughs, bringing his wrist up to hide the way the beer spills out into his skin. “You’re not wrong.”

“My father took baseball very seriously,” Tommy shrugs. “He took each of us on our thirteenth birthday, like some sort of all-American confirmation.”

“Ushering you into the cult of America’s best pastime,” Jon grins. “How many brothers do you have?”

“None.” Tommy raises an eyebrow at him. “I have a sister.”

“Oh.” Jon flushes. He’s unendingly surprised by how often he puts his foot in his mouth, now that he can’t use his power to smooth over his follies. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply-“ 

“It’s okay.” Tommy shrugs, his shoulders tight and definitely not okay. “My sister started working in the factory two months before her birthday, just as I did. My father figured it was only fair that she got to go to the game, too. She came back with one of those foam fingers- tacked it to our bedroom wall. She was so happy that day.”

“I always wanted one of those,” Jon grins. “My father said they were ‘unsophisticated and would lead to rabble rousing.’”

“Well,” Tommy grins, his smile spreading from ear to ear, “it did do that. I joined a foam-fingered gang the day after I got mine. He was right to keep you away- you couldn’t have handled it.”

“Hey,” Jon nudges his shoulder, not having to move far. “I’m stronger than I look.”

“I don’t doubt that.” Tommy looks at Jon again, with that same piercing look that cuts through every layer of brick and mortar Jon’s laid for the past two decades. “Your father doesn’t sound like much of a father.”

Jon stiffens, his heart pounding against his ribs as he tries to stop it before Tommy can see it. “He wasn’t- He gave me everything I ever wanted.”

“And anything you needed?”

“A roof over my head. Food on the table. A business that will keep my family from wanting for generations.” Jon swallows. Even as he makes the list, it sounds hollow.

“Right.” Tommy shrugs. “Material goods. There’s more to life than fineries and finger food.”

Jon glares at him, “such as?,” and tips back the beer. It burns down his throat, lukewarm and flat.

“Love,” Tommy says, his voice tinged with something light and soft, like he’s letting the word loose into the crowd around them. “Acceptance.”

Jon’s ribcage aches with the bricks he’s built around it. “Won’t put a roof over your head.”

“What does a roof matter if there isn’t love under it?” Tommy pushes.

Jon swallows. He thinks back to those games he used to go to, his father five feet and a million miles away from him. His father, who doled out praise for money well earned and acceptance for a deal well-sealed.

Tommy’s shoulders soften with his voice. “My father couldn’t afford much, but he wanted us to have the experience of a VIP. We entered on the lower level, walked through the wealthy all dressed in their summer finery. This one woman, I’ll never forget, had a peacock on her hat.”

Jon laughs, the sound punching out of him. “All the rage for a year or two.”

Tommy raises his voice to match Jon’s. “He bought me a hot dog and a foam finger and he let me steal a sip of his beer. It didn’t matter that the seats were obstructed. I barely even noticed.”

“I remember those seats,” Jon exclaims, loud enough to draw attention. He flushes and drops his voice. “They always had the most interesting men- people in them.”

Tommy nods. “They’re the only seats people like us could afford.”

“Can I tell you a secret?”

“You aren’t tired of sharing them yet?”

Jon pushes his shoulder against Tommy’s, shaking his head. “Those seats are better than box seats.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Believe whatever you want.” Jon grins. “Honest to god I was always jealous.”

“Oh,” Tommy’s eyes dance with humor as they meet Jon’s, “golden boys do get jealous of some things.”

“Fuck off,” Jon pushes against him, good-naturedly. 

On the field, Atlanta hits a two-run homer. Jon stands with the rest of the crowd, Tommy’s whistle in his ear and Tommy’s elbow pressed against his as they both cheer wildly.

Jon feels more alive than he thinks he ever has before.

***


	7. Atlanta to Norfolk

**Atlanta, Georgia 1934**

Jon almost gets lost in the crowd exiting the stadium, caught up on a three-run comeback in the top of the ninth and the beer-an-inning pace he and Tommy had maintained. He can see Tommy’s head in the crowd, blond and thinning a little in the back, his shoulders taking up the space of two men. Jon uses his power to cross the lobby, “excuse me”s and “pardon me”s rolling off his tongue like butter. The crowd parts in a safe path between them.

“Oh thank god,” Tommy breathes out when he sees Jon. “I wasn’t sure how I’d tell Dan that I lost you.”

Jon snorts. “I doubt he’d mind all that much.”

“You might be surprised.” Tommy reaches for Jon’s wrist and pulls him through the crowd. His fingers are warm and calloused as they brush Jon’s pressure points. “You make quite an impression on the people you meet.”

Jon flushes, grateful for the crowds of cheering fans, all dressed in red and waving baseball caps and foam fingers, for hiding it. “That’s all my power.”

“Your power doesn’t work on us,” Tommy reminds him. He pulls Jon the rest of the way through an exit and turns right down a less crowded alleyway. “Besides, our powers are part of who we are.”

Jon frowns. He trips over a crack in the pavement, but Tommy’s hand tightens around his wrist, holding him up with the strength of only two fingers.

“Careful,” Tommy shakes his head. “Do you have another drink in you? I’d like to wait out the crowds before we head back.”

Jon nods, following Tommy through the alley and into a corner pub. The lights are low and the crowd is steady but not overwhelming. Tommy grabs two seats at the end of the bar, squeezing himself between the wall and Jon, and waving his hand for the bartender.

Jon waits until he has his drink before he asks. “You really see it that way?”

Tommy takes a long swig of his beer, his eyebrows knitting together. “What?”

“Your power?” Jon glances at Tommy’s disproportionate physique. “You really see it as a part of you?”

Tommy looks down at his glass, his eyes narrowing to the darkest blue. “I didn’t, for a long time. But some very smart people taught me that I can’t cut it out and I can’t hide from it, so there was nothing left but to accept it.”

Jon swallows. “I know some very rich people who taught me how to embrace mine for much less pure reasons.”

“Yeah.” Tommy takes a deep breath. “I’ve known a few of those kinds of people, too.”

Jon’s memory is filled with lounge after lounge after lounge, so different from this bar they’re sitting in now, with company so different from his present company. Those memories are filled with the relief of his father’s praise and the warmth of attention. But now Jon can’t fathom how he could have thought that that was a full life, a life worth fighting for, a life worth losing himself for. 

Jon pulls himself back from his memories, shivering slightly. “How did you get away from them?”

“I ran.” Tommy grabs his beer and finishes it, waving for another round even though Jon’s barely touched his. “I ran and I never looked back.”

Jon nods slowly. “That was awfully brave of you.”

“Necessity,” Tommy corrects. “Bravery had nothing to do with it.”

Jon pauses. There’s something in Tommy’s tone that matches the darkness of Jon’s thoughts, burying deep under the warmth of the beer and the sounds of sixty rowdy Braves fans. This isn’t the place or the time or Jon’s right to know, but, while the bartender’s back is turned, he asks, “what happened?” before he can stop himself.

Tommy waits until the bartender has turned back around, dropping their beers on the counter with a wet thunk. Tommy reaches for his, wrapping his hands tight enough around the glass that Jon’s certain it’s going to break. “I killed a man.”

Jon rears back, his beer wobbling and tipping over. Tommy’s hand snaps out, his reflexes catching the glass and righting it, his arm brushing against Jon’s. Jon flushes. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to-” Jon stops, floundering over a way, any way, to finish.

“There’s no way that sentence ends that I haven’t thought of myself.” Tommy’s jaw clenches. “It was an accident. It was six months after my father had died and four months after I’d traded in college to take his place on the assembly line. I’d had a few drinks, the guy disparaged my sister, typical bar fight, you know? Except I don’t get to have a typical bar fight.”

Jon breathes out, “Tommy.”

“The police report said that I was ‘unlucky.’ What a ridiculous word. ‘Mr. Vietor’s fist connected at the exact wrong angle, an inch to the left and-” Tommy trails off.

“And he’d still be alive,” Jon finishes for him.

“And I’d still be working in that factory, coming home every night to cough up the lead in my lungs and to kiss the bride I never get to see,” Tommy finishes for himself. “I’d have no idea that I even had a power, none-the-less what good I could do with it.”

Jon swallows.

“I think about him every day and the life he didn’t get to lead.” Tommy takes a deep breath, straightening his shoulders like he’s steeling himself. “And the life that I get to lead because he didn’t.”

Jon pushes back his first, instinctual thought - _the poor are lazy, selfish brutes always on the lookout for a hand out_, said in his father’s most dismissive baritone - and asks, instead. “You ran away, after?"

Tommy shakes his head. "I tried to turn myself in. I stayed up all night, had my statement written and ready by the time dawn rose. I thought- I knew they'd charge me. A fine I could never pay back, work time, maybe a few months in jail."

Jon shivers.

"It would have been what I deserved," Tommy shrugs easily. "But the first cop took me to a dark room. Chained me to a chair. Asked me a million questions about the angle of the punch, the force I was using, what I ate for breakfast most days, who my parents were and if I'd ever been injected with anything strange. It didn't feel right."

"Fuck," Jon swallows. "My father always warned me that would happen if I got caught. Government blacksites with restraints and needles."

Tommy nods. "I overheard two of the guards talking about the Feds and I didn't wait to find out the details. I knew enough about my power by then to use it to escape, so that night I did."

"And found the circus."

"The circus found me." Tommy smiles a little and his fingers unclench enough to take a sip of his beer. "I was working on the railroad under a fake name, when Dan showed up in the boss' office to pay off the end of my contract. I had no idea what the circus entailed-"

"Relatable," Jon laughs, easing himself enough to reach for his own beer.

"It was both easier and harder for me." Tommy finally tilts his head so that Jon can see the side of his face. "It was just Elijah and Dan and I for a long time. I was so afraid- I didn't really understand my power or the things that I could do. But they pushed past my walls. Stubborn bastards."

"And now?"

"And now," Tommy laughs, his cheeks flushing and his smile spreading to his eyes. "Well, you've seen what we are now."

"I've seen," Jon agrees slowly. "But I don't understand."

"No, I suppose you wouldn't." Tommy sighs, something sad and disappointed flashing across his face and Jon wants to real it back in, wants to pretend to understand, wants to _actually_ understand, anything to take that look off of Tommy's face. "They're mine, as much as I'm theirs. I'm still amazed- I never thought I could fall in love once, none-the-less eight times over."

Six months ago, Jon would have understood that. His bubble in Boston was small, built on weak ties with loose women and men who were useful in bed, and malleable mostly-men who were useful in the boardroom. But over the past few weeks, he's observed the gentle way Michael touches Pri's knee when she's injured; the thoughtful way Em and Dan give portions of their meager meals to Tommy; the fond way Alyssa laughs from Tanya's wagon; the all-encompassing, there's-no-one-else-in-the-world way Lovett looks at each of them.

Jon nods softly. "How did you learn? To love?"

"Elijah taught me how to love myself. Dan taught me how to love others." Tommy shrugs, finishing his beer. "Then the others came and they kept teaching me. I like to think I taught them a little, too."

Jon waves for another round, downing his own before he asks, his cheeks so inflamed he wants to press the cool glass against them. "How does it work? Do you just, I don't know, pick up strays and invite them to join your ...?"

"Commune," Tommy supplies, laughter rippling through his chest. "Very _exclusive_, very committed commune. But please, I beg you, use the word 'strays' when you ask Em all these questions."

"I wasn't planning on it," Jon mutters into his new beer. "I wasn't planning on mentioning any of this ever again."

“I really hope you do, just to see her _face_.” Tommy snorts. "You're not entirely wrong though. Pri came to us out of the woods. Tanya too, although Em had laid the groundwork for her."

Jon nods slowly, trying to piece Tommy's words together. "How do you know? When they, ahh, move from a stray to a, um, romance?”

"Partner," Tommy laughs. "The same way you know when you're in love with anyone. It doesn't change, no matter how many times you've been through it. It's fucking terrifying and I'd do it again and again and again, if I could."

Jon's heart thuds loud enough against his chest that he's sure Tommy can hear. Jon's never been in love, not the way Tommy's describing it. Never in a way that goes beyond lust and infatuation to this all-encompassing, mind-altering, lose yourself and find yourself again and do it all gladly, kind of love.

Unbidden, Jon gets a flash of New Orleans. Bright outfits and neon drinks and Lovett's lips, for just a moment so soft against his that Jon had thought that he could drown in them forever and be happy. 

"What happens," Jon asks slowly, "if one of you falls in love and the others don't?"

Tommy shrugs. "We take a vote."

Jon raises an eyebrow. "A vote?"

"It has to be unanimous," Tommy clarifies. "No one's forcing anyone to share their life with someone they don't want to."

Jon swallows, his heart sinking. "Has anyone ever failed a vote?"

Tommy finishes his beer and slides it over to the bartender, dropping a few coins next to it. "No, they haven't. You ready to go? Dan won't sleep until we're home."

Jon slides off his stool, stumbling more from everything he's learned than from the alcohol. Tommy puts a hand on Jon's lower back, just the fingertips to guide him.

Tommy waits until they've left the hustle of the stadium behind before he says, his face bathed in shadows, "thank you for not running away the moment I told you about my past."

Jon leans back into Tommy's fingers. "I've done much worse," he admits, feeling the truth of it hot and heavy in his stomach.

Tommy's fingers tighten. “That might be true.”

Jon’s stomach tightens.

“But you’re not finished yet, Jon Favreau,” Tommy continues, pushing Jon ahead of him through an alleyway and out into the open path back to the field where they’ve set up camp. “You get to decide who you are now.”

***

“Hey,” Lovett exclaims as he enters the ring, collapsing next to Dan and draping a leg over Dan’s knees. “Jon’s starting to sound like you.”

Jon frowns, dropping his arms to his sides. Since his talk with Tommy, he’s started noticing the little touches more and more and he has to force himself to look away from Dan’s lap. It’s already embarrassing enough, standing alone in the ring yelling at noone but a distracted Dan. No set of ‘imagine the audience is filling the first twenty rows, rowdy and naked’ visualization techniques is quite working for him. 

Jon steps closer to them. “Is that a compliment?”

Dan spreads his hand on Lovett’s knee. “Of course it is.”

“Ehh,” Lovett shrugs, a long, drawn-out noise that carries through the empty benches.

Dan squeezes, his fingers pinching into Lovett’s skin and drawing a quick yelp from him.

“I don’t know,” Jon shrugs, taking another few steps towards them. He’s wearing Dan’s retired and battered MC jacket, and he tries to cross his arms against the rough fabric. “I could do an awful lot worse.”

Dan snorts. “You could do an awful lot better, too.”

“See?” Lovett motions gleefully. “Even Dan agrees with me.”

“Shush.” Dan shakes his head, fondly, then turns to Jon. His eyes are the clearest blue, and the fondness doesn’t entirely disappear when he catches Jon’s. “You’re developing your own voice, Jon. You’ve finally stopped trying to imitate and have started to create.”

Jon flushes. He can see, now, why he’d been having trouble talking about a nebulous circus before he’d actually seen a live one. It’s hard to put vague senses of wonder into words. He should know, he’d been trying for fourteen years without any luck. Now that he’s seen a show, though, the circus is concrete, an endless stream of wondrous images, thoughts, and feelings that Jon can cycle through when he’s announcing.

When Jon takes the ring and starts with “welcome, one and all” he remembers a thousand smiling faces, mouths sticky with cotton candy, and hear two thousand feet stamping, building to a cacophony almost loud enough to bowl him over.

When Jon continues with “if you’re looking for an evening of magic and wonder, you’ve come to the right place” he means elephants in tutus but also Pri and her rings of fire, Emily and Tanya tumbling through the air like it’s as light as water, Tommy hoisting a 300-pound tiger onto his shoulders.

When Jon finishes with “now sit back and let us guide you through a world of awe and laughter” he feels the weight of that world on his shoulders, like the smile on Pri’s face and the laughter in Lovett’s throat and the pride in Dan’s shoulders are for him, too. Like Jon’s been invited into this world and he’s made himself a home there. Or, at least, is starting to.

Dan stands, stretching his back before reaching down to right an indignant Lovett. “You’re ready for the Big Top. You’ll be in the ring tonight.”

Jon freezes, his thoughts skidding to a stop and running into each other. “I’m- I’m not. Am I?”

“Tommy thinks you are.” Dan shrugs, pulling Lovett with him down the steps. “Besides, I'm partial to trial by fire myself. I expect you in the dressing tent at 4pm sharp. Any later and you’ll face Emily’s wrath.”

“But-” Jon blinks. “Shouldn’t we practice more?”

Dan shakes his head. “You’re ready. Try not to think about it, that’s the best advice I have.”

Jon scoffs. “That’s terrible advice.”

“Oh,” Dan turns at the door, walking backwards, “and take a bath. There’s a river a few hundred feet south. You look like you’ve been with the circus for a few months.”

Jon frowns, raising his arm and sniffing. He hadn’t realized how comfortable he’d become with living in his rickety wooden wagon with a rationing of water to drink, none-the-less bathe. “That’s because I have been.”

“We don’t need the audience to know that,” Lovett grins, waving widely before they disappear down the hallway.

***

It’s more than a couple hundred feet to the river. Jon swears as he slides down a steep decline, his shoes slipping on the pebbles and dirt, his hands too busy holding onto his towel to save himself. He comes to a stop with an “oomph,” lying on his back on softer ground.

“Okay down there?” A voice calls, tinged with laughter.

Jon blinks his eyes open. High above him, he can make out Emily’s blond hair, hanging in wet strands around her shoulders. Her long, elegant legs are spread over the neck of an elephant. As Jon watches, the elephant drops her trunk into the water and lifts it over him, drenching him in an endless spray.

Tanya giggles. She’s standing in knee-deep water, her hair doing very little to cover her bare chest. “I hope you wanted a shower.”

“I prefer baths,” Jon sighs. He struggles to his feet in what is now quicksand, holding up the bar of soap he’d bummed off of Michael. “And I’m here on Dan’s orders.”

Tanya bends to fill her bucket with water, showing off long planes of dark skin disappearing into her bloomers and then out again. She lifts the bucket, her back rippling with the effort, to pour the water over a calf’s back. She spares Jon a raised eyebrow mostly in his direction as the baby elephant shakes itself with a sad trumpet. “He’s letting you in the ring then?”

Jon shifts, her unseeing gaze burning through him like he’s already naked. His skin goosebumps and he reaches for the hem of his shirt to distract himself. “Tonight, yeah.”

“Congratulations,” Emily grins. She reaches down to pet her elephant’s head, ushering her closer to shore. “You have big shoes to fill.”

Jon toes off his own shoes, ripped and dirty and definitely worse for wear. He trips a little as he peels his sopping wet pants off and throws them over a patch of semi-dry grass. “Thank you, that’s very helpful.”

Emily shrugs. Her elephant lowers slowly onto her front legs and Emily rubs her ears. “Good girl. Get on, Jon. Never leave an elephant waiting.”

Jon swallows. The water is cold as he steps into it and he shivers in his drawers. Emily reaches out, her fingers wrapping tightly around Jon’s forearm and pulling him bodily up behind her. The elephant rumbles, rising to full standing, and Jon scrambles for purchase. He spreads one hand wide on Emily’s waist and another on her stomach, low against the band of her bloomers.

She snorts, reaching down and moving his hand higher and to the side.

“Sorry.” Jon flushes, wishing they weren’t pressed together from ankle to hip. Emily’s skin is smooth and endless, blemished only by the callouses on her fingers, arms, and inner knees where she clings to the trapeze. Signs of strength and grace and Jon has to hold himself back from tracing the rough skin on the inside of his elbow with his thumb. He clears his throat. “I’ve never ridden an elephant.”

“First time for everything,” Emily grins. She tightens her right knee and the elephant moves to her right, into the deeper eddy of the river. “Everyone in the circus should know how to ride an elephant.”

Jon raises an eyebrow. “Does that mean I’m part of the circus now?”

“We’ll find out tonight, won’t we?” Tanya asks. She ducks for another bucket of water, but this time the calf beats her to it, spraying its own back with water and getting Tanya in the blast.

Jon snorts into Emily’s shoulder. “No pressure.”

Emily’s laughter ripples down her back where it’s pressed into Jon’s chest. “Pressure is important for performance.”

“But-” Jon starts.

Before he can finish, Emily’s slid out of his grasp, tipping sideways. She slides gracefully down the elephant’s trunk and dives into the deep water with barely a ripple.

“Em-” Jon clings to the elephant’s rough skin, looking for purchase with his hands but settling for squeezing tightly with his knees. “What the fuck?”

Emily surfaces, throwing her hair back and treading water. Her arms and legs are bright under the water’s surface. “Trial by fire,” she shrugs, like she and Dan have planned this. Jon’s not entirely sure that they haven’t.

The elephant swings her head and Jon grabs at her ear, murmuring, “sorry, sorry” to her. He glares down at Emily. “What do I _do_?”

“Just copy what I did,” Emily shrugs. “Use your knees.”

“Use my knees,” Jon grumbles. He presses inwards with his left knee and the elephant trumpets, jerking forward. “Woah,” Jon calls, pressing in with his right one, hard enough to hurt. Emily swings her head to the right, her back rippling and jerking. Jon screams as he tumbles from her back and hits the water with a loud splat.

“Oh,” Tanya grins, “please tell me he fell off.”

Emily shakes her head to get the water out of her eyes. “Oh, he did. It was spectacular, love.”

Jon’s legs move rapidly to keep himself upright as he brushes water out of his eyes and shakes it out of his ears. “Fuck off, you set me up.”

“Right of passage.” Emily tosses the soap at him. “Soap up, I’ve got a lot of work to do on you before you’re presentable tonight.”

Jon glares at her. “You’re not going anywhere near me.”

“We’ll see about that.” Emily shrugs, her shoulders rising out of the water, pale and angular and smooth as silk. She kicks her legs behind her, pushing towards the shore. “Make sure you get all the nooks and crannies.”

Jon glares at her, but does drop his soapy hands under his armpits and into the crack of his ass. When he’s as clean as he’s going to get in a river full of elephants, with Emily and Tanya’s unnerving gazes on him, he glares back at her. “That’s the best it’s gonna get.” 

He tosses the soap to Emily and then climbs, much less gracefully that he’d hoped, out of the water. 

Emily giggles, catching the soap and slipping it into the bag strapped to the mother elephant’s back. She pulls a loose linen tunic over her head, just barely long enough to brush the top of her thighs, and shoves the rest of her clothes in the same bag.

Jon sighs, trying unsuccessfully to dry off with his ratty and soaked towel, before stepping into his drenched pants and shirt, leaving them both unbuttoned and hanging off his damp skin.

Emily snorts, twisting the elephant’s reins around her wrist and stepping forward. Tanya falls into step with her, brushing Emily’s shoulder as the calf follows closely behind her heels. “Is he trying to show off?”

Jon sighs, “my clothes are wet,” as Emily winks, “he is.”

Tanya glances unerringly in his direction, her gaze blazing through him in that unsettling way she has. Jon’s power fizzles across his skin, searching for an outlet it won’t find. Jon tries to keep it in his veins, he’s going to need it later.

“No one’s ever told him that modesty is attractive,” Tanya smirks.

“Well,” Emily grins, turning to kiss the edge of Tanya’s mouth, “I wouldn’t go that far.”

Tanya snorts. “It looks different on you, my love.”

Emily flushes with happiness, her skin pinking all the way into the open vee of her tunic. “Why, thank you.”

“Besides-” Tanya rests her cheek on Emily’s head, turning her gaze to Jon, looking suddenly younger and smaller. “Jon would be wasting his time.”

Jon frowns at her. His clothes are drying quickly in the sun and he reaches down to do up the button on his pants. “Don’t worry, I’m well aware.”

“Don’t look so put out,” Emily laughs, not lifting her head from Tanya’s shoulder. “It’s not a you thing, it’s a-”

“Man thing,” Tanya finishes for her.

“Oh.” Jon’s brow thickens, looking her over. “_Oh_.” His eyes widen even as Tommy’s words coming back to him. _I never thought I could fall in love once, none-the-less eight times over_. “But Tommy said-”

“I love them, sometimes,” Tanya shrugs. Her shoulders rise and fall easily, Emily’s head moving with them like Tanya’s always meant to be a physical part of her. “But, I don’t fuck them. Once was more than enough for me.”

“Oh,” Jon swallows. He thinks back to all the times he’s watched them together, the careful way Dan’s kissed just the side of Tanya’s mouth, the way Tommy squeezes her shoulder, the way Lovett wraps his elbow around hers and smiles with so much affection. _Oh_. Jon blinks. “Lovett too?”

Tanya snorts. “Nothing gets past you, really, it doesn’t.”

Jon glares at her. “I’m new at this, cut me some sort of slack?”

“Obviously.” Tanya grins, turning her head to kiss the top of Emily’s. Her expression is lighter when she catches Jon’s gaze again. “But what fun would that be?”

***

“There.” Emily caps her red lipstick and drops it to her dressing table. “You’re as ready as you’re going to get.”

Lovett claps from his place, sitting cross-legged on Pri’s table. “Inspiring, Em, I don’t know why you’re not the MC.”

Emily raises her middle finger at him. “I want to see you do better.”

Lovett motions to his exaggerated red mouth and faux flushed cheeks. “You see every one of my talents every day.”

“Oh,” Emily raises an eyebrow, stepping back from her spot between Jon’s spread knees. “You call those talents? Excuse me for not putting two and two together to make seven.”

She holds up a small hand mirror and Jon squints at the image. It’s himself, heightened and exaggerated so even the last row can see the smile on his face and the rim of his wide eyes.

If only his father could see him now.

“Come on,” Lovett sighs, pushing off the table and shaking out his over-large clown pantaloons. “It’s at least five, no?”

Emily snorts. “Sure, love, tell yourself whatever you want.”

Lovett splutters, but before he can say anything more, Dan pokes his head around the open doorway. “Almost ready?”

Emily nods, reaching for her brush and running it through Jon’s eyebrows one more time. “He’s all yours.”

Jon swallows, nodding “thanks” at Emily and murmuring “break a leg” to Pri and Tanya as he slips out of the tent. Dan’s grinning at him, still dressed in his civies, his face blank of makeup.

“You’re not doing another act?” Jon frowns.

Dan shakes his head. “My old legs could use a break. Don’t worry, I’ll be watching from the stands.”

Jon swallows. “That wasn’t my concern.”

Dan laughs. “You’re going to do just fine.” He holds out his hand, his tall black top hat hanging from his fingers. “This is yours for the night.”

Jon’s fingers shake as he reaches for it. “Really?”

“It’s the MC’s,” Dan shrugs. “So tonight, it’s yours.”

Jon swallows, sliding it onto his head. “How do I look?”

Dan grins, his eyes bright and blue in the low lights backstage. “Like you belong.”

Jon’s heart flutters. Behind the curtain, he can hear the crowd cheering and chattering, growing restless.

“Go get ‘em,” Dan grins wider, slapping Jon on the back.

Jon watches him for one long moment, before the curtain rises and he races through.

Nothing could have prepared him to be standing here, alone, in the center of the ring. The spotlight has narrowed in on him, burning hot against his face of makeup and Jon can, ridiculously, feel his eyebrows melting. The crowd is behind a curtain of darkness and there’s a bubble of silence for the longest moment. Jon can’t see them or hear them, but Jon’s absolutely certain that a thousand people are looking to him, trusting him, believing in him.

Jon steps forward and the bubble breaks. His ears are filled with cheers and cat calls, his eyes bursting to life with smiling faces, his nose filling with the smells of popcorn and cracker jacks and roasting meat on sticks.

Jon spreads his arms wide, feeling his power sizzle down them, tall and bright and luminous. “Good evening,” he projects, feeling his own mouth spread into an amazed grin. “Welcome to the greatest show on earth.”

***


	8. Richmond to Washington, DC

**Richmond, Virginia 1934**

Jon is sweating as he jogs out of the ring.

The Big Top is always sweltering - thousands of attendees crammed into one oblong space, joined by a couple dozen performers and twice as many animals - but it’s particularly unbearable when Pri’s blowing fire in all directions.

“You can introduce Pri next show,” Jon sighs, sliding his hat off his head. “I get the bears.”

“Bears are 300 pounds of fur that insulate heat like a furnace. But,” Dan laughs, taking the hat. “Whatever you say.”

“I say.” Jon turns, walking backwards. Over Dan’s shoulder, he can see the tigers traipsing into the ring on Pri’s heels. At his own back, he can feel sunlight breaking in through the door in the tent. “Break a leg.”

Dan winks, sliding the hat onto his head. Ever since Jon’s first successful show in Raleigh, he and Dan have been splitting MC duties. Jon doesn’t feel strong or knowledgeable enough to carry the show on his own, and Dan’s been- Well, Jon doesn’t know what he’s been doing when he disappears in the mornings and appears again just minutes before he’s supposed to take over the second half of the show with a smile on his face but extra wrinkles on his brow.

Jon steps back into the sun and shakes his head. He’s got more things to worry about than Dan’s secrets. Like, preferably, ducking his head into the closest body of water, elephant trough or otherwise. He’s crossing to the buckets they keep next to the menagerie, when he sees a man skulking around Alyssa’s wagon.

Jon frowns. The man is well-dressed in a bowler hat and a well-fitted pinstripe three-piece, looking unperturbed by the heat in the way Jon’s only seen his father’s friends be. As if they can fight nature back if they refuse to recognize it. As if their sheer willpower is stronger than midsummer Virginia humidity. 

Alyssa’s wagon is closed for a breather in-between pre- and post-show readings, and they’ve even moved it off the midway temporarily. Jon’s frown deepens as he cautiously steps up behind the man. “Can I help you with something?”

“Ahh.” The man turns around, his eyes sweeping Jon from head to feet with the same raised eyebrow Jon’s father used down at the docks, where men had to sweat and break their backs to provide for their families.

Jon realizes, with a start, how he must look. Dressed in matching linen pants and shirt that were last cleaned back in Chattanooga and mended just last week. But even Tanya’s talented sewing fingers can’t hide the threads at Jon’s knees and elbows, and no amount of soap-bathing can scrub the road from under Jon’s fingertips or the sweat stains from his armpits. Jon looks like he belongs with the circus.

Jon feels a thrill in his chest and he smiles his most professional smile. “The midway is closed while the show is in progress, but if you’d like to come back in an hour or so, everything will be open. You can even get turkey legs. That wagon there-” Jon points- “best sauce on the eastern seaboard.”

“You don’t say?” The man nods. Jon can see just the beginnings of sweat on his collar. “Well, I’m sorry that I won’t be able to stay that long. Can you deliver a note for me?”

Jon tilts his head. “Ahh, sure, if you really can’t stay? You’ll miss our best acts.”

“That is a shame.” The man holds out his hand. “But I really must be going. I have to be back in the city by tonight.”

Jon frowns. “That’s an awful long way to come to deliver a message. I could get you a seat in the first few rows for the second act.”

The man shrugs. “A man’s gotta do what he’s gotta do for business. Will you make sure she gets this?”

Jon nods, taking the letter from him. Alyssa’s name is written on the front in perfect print. It’s sealed with wax on the back. “I’ll make sure she gets it.”

The man nods. “Thank you, Mr. - ”

“Jon.” Jon’s arm twitches, but he doesn’t hold his hand out. “Just Jon is fine.”

“Well, Jon.” The man nods, already taking a step backwards. “Thank you for your help.”

“No problem,” Jon calls. 

The sun beats hotter than ever on his neck, and he pockets the letter and turns to find that water.

***

“Jon.” Lovett grins as he pulls the door open. He steps between the hanging curtains, his green celluloid visor catching and twisting sideways down his curls. “What a pleasant surprise.”

Jon raises an eyebrow at the commotion behind Lovett. He’d heard it from across the camp and now he can see how crowded the wagon is. He should have come at another time, but, he’s here now, so he smiles at Lovett. “Yeah?”

“Fishing for compliments is beneath you.” Lovett snorts, stepping back and holding the curtain open. “Come in.”

Jon takes the last step into Alyssa’s wagon, his shoulder brushing against Lovett’s as he steps past him. “Thanks. I actually just came by to give Alyssa something.”

“Sure.” Lovett motions towards Alyssa, who’s sitting at the end of the table. Her skirt is hiked halfway up her thighs and she’s leaning forward, her elbows on the table. “But you might wanna wait until the end of the hand. Want a drink while you wait?”

Jon glances at the side table. Last time he was in Alyssa’s wagon, it was covered in formaldehyde jars and crystal balls, but now Michael’s turned it into a bar covered in glass alcohol bottles and little vases of bitters and garnishes. Michael’s a genius, and Jon would like a drink, in theory, to dim the bright artificial lights and dampen the cacophony of laughter and still the frantic beating of his heart. But the last two times that Jon has drunk in Lovett’s presence, he’d come fairly close to ruining the fragile thing Jon’s building with all of them. So Jon shakes his head. “I’m okay.”

Lovett holds out his glass. It smells like grapefruit and gin. “You’re missing out.”

Lovett’s cheeks are flushed and his grin stretches all the way to his eyes. 

“I know.” Jon swallows. Definitely the right decision. “So, ahh, you’re not in there?”

Lovett sighs heavily. “They don’t let me play anymore. I’m the designated dealer and objective referee.”

“Not all that objective.” Emily sorts. She’s curled comfortably in Tanya’s lap, her toes on the edge of the chair and her right side pressed to Tanya’s chest. Her fingers are pressed to Tanya’s pressure point to, Jon can only assume, broadcast Tanya’s cards to her.

“Em’s just salty about Sacramento,” Lovett rolls his eyes and doesn’t bother dropping his voice.

Emily raises her middle finger. “Sacramento was bullshit and you know it.”

Jon looks from Emily’s flushed face to Lovett’s casual smile. “What happened in Sacramento?”

There’s a chorus of groans and moans. Pri rests her elbow on the table, crossing her knees so that one rests on Dan’s thigh in the seat next to hers. “Please don’t get them started.”

“Maybe Jon wants to hear it,” Emily shrugs, turning to look at Jon, her eyes narrowed. “And maybe I wanna tell it.”

Tanya reaches for Emily’s hand. “Are we winning this hand or a battle you’ve fought and lost a dozen times over the past year?”

Emily shrugs. “I don’t see why I have to choose, I’m awfully good at multitasking.”

“Not that great.” Alyssa lays down her cards. “Anyone beat four queens?”

Tanya groans, pinching Emily’s hip. “I’ve never seen any evidence to support that.”

“This competitive streak is not your most attractive quality, love,” Emily sighs, dropping hers and Tanya’s hand into the pile.

“Is it finally over?” Tommy looks up from the book in his lap. “Maybe I won’t be out in the first round this hand.”

Lovett leans down to kiss him, before falling into the chair between him and Dan. He pulls his ankle under his hips and reaches across the table to gather the cards. “Your optimism is an inspiration to us all.”

“Fuck off.” Tommy flicks the back of his head. “And deal better cards.”

As Lovett splutters, Alyssa catches Jon’s eye. She motions to the chair next to her, empty but set up, almost like she’s been waiting for him to fill it. “You have something for me.”

Jon steps forward, sitting gingerly in the chair and pulling the letter from his front pocket. “A man left this for you, during the show. I’m sorry it took me so long to bring it to you, I’d completely forgotten about it.”

Alyssa raises a knowing eyebrow, and Jon gets the distinct feelings that she knows exactly when he found it - when he was undressing for bed over an hour ago - and why he waited until now to bring it over - because he had to wait until his curiosity outweighed his embarrassment and he’d been ready to use the letter as an excuse to find out what kind of party he was missing out on. She smirks, her cheeks flushed under the artificial lights. “Thank you for bringing it by this late, but do you mind if I ask you to keep it until it’s time?”

“Ahh, no problem.” Jon flushes, pushing the letter back into his pocket and tossing about for something, anything, to take that knowing smirk off her face and settling on, “they let you play? Even though you know how it’ll end.”

Alyssa snorts, taking the card Lovett deals her and putting it in front of Jon. Lovett grins, sliding another card down to her. “That’s not the way my power works. I get flashes, images and words that rarely have any meaning on their own. And never about anything as inconsequential as family poker night.”

“Who are you calling inconsequential?” Emily frowns, rolling her head on Tanya’s shoulder to look at the small stack of coins in front of Tommy. “Tommy’s about to start trading favors for coins, and that’s always consequential.”

“Fuck,” Tommy glowers, picking up his first card, “off.”

“If you lose,” Emily shrugs. “I just might.”

Lovett snorts, dealing the next two cards. “You need a rule refresher, Jon?”

Jon shakes his head. “Oh, I’m not playing.”

Emily tilts her head at the cards in front of him. “It kinda seems like you are.”

“It’s easier to just give in,” Michael snorts, sliding a glass into Jon’s hand. It smells like grapefruit, just like Lovett’s did, with a hint of citrus. “I’ll spot you.”

“Ahh,” Jon looks down at the coins in front of him. “That’s awfully kind of you, but-“

Dan leans back in his chair, crossing his knee against the edge of the table and flicking the end of his cigar into the dish at his elbow. His shirt is open to his navel and Jon can see a new line tattoo that looks an awful lot like the White House crossing low across his chest. “Are we going to play? Or would you all like to keep talking?”

Jon takes a long sip of his drink and picks up his cards.

Six hands, a dozen borrowed coins, and two drinks later, Jon’s feeling less steady about, well, everything. From his utter lack of ability to read anyone’s poker face to his wavering faith that he’ll be able to repay any of these coins back.

“You can do a few extra shifts on stake duty to pay down your debt,” Michael snorts, as he stands and stretches after the last hand. He squeezes Jon’s shoulder as he steps past him, catching Tommy’s eye. “I’m going to check in on Elijah before calling it a night.”

“Yeah.” Tommy pushes his own chair back. His arm brushes against Jon’s and he smiles softly. “I’ll come with you.”

Jon’s chest pulls at Elijah’s name. Jon hasn’t stopped thinking about Elijah’s question - _were you worth saving?_ \- in the weeks since Jon walked into the menagerie tent full of hope and had walked out full of regret. He doesn’t know what the answer was then. He doesn’t know what the answer is now, either, but he hopes he’s inching closer and closer to _yes_ every day he spends making a place for himself here.

“Jon?” Alyssa says, her tone suggesting that it wasn’t the first or third time she’s called his name. She twists in her seat, crossing her legs and tapping her foot against his shin. She raises an infuriatingly knowing eyebrow, like his heart is nothing more than cellophane under that look. “I’ll take that letter now.”

“Right.” Jon fumbles in his front pocket, his fingers feeling slow and blunt. “Sorry, it’s a little crumpled.”

“No damage done.” Alyssa takes the letter from him. She breaks the seal and unfolds the paper, her smile not faltering even as her cheeks pale under the light and her fingers shake around the page.

Dan’s chair legs clang to the floor as he rights himself, placing a hand on Pri’s knee to quiet her as he leans forward across the table. “Alyssa?”

Alyssa hands the letter across the table to him. When she looks back at Jon, her eyes are deeper than they were five minutes before, like Jon could see the ghost of something he doesn’t understand in them if he looked deep enough. She takes a deep breath. “You saw this man?”

Jon nods. “He was skulking around your wagon, after the intermission.”

“Describe him to me.”

“Tall,” Jon shrugs. “Well-dressed. Bowler hat on his head and money oozing from his pores.”

Alyssa nods to herself, looking up to catch Dan’s gaze. “Fuck.”

Dan smiles reassuringly at her and folds the letter, sliding it into his pants pocket. “Looks like we’re making a detour.”

Jon frowns between them. “Where to?”

“DC,” Alyssa and Dan say together.

Jon swallows. His fingers itch to reach for the letter, to read what it says and to convince himself that he hasn’t fucked everything up, again. “I’m coming, too.”

Dan opens his mouth, his head already shaking.

“Yes,” Alyssa says, beating him to it. Her eyes light on Jon’s, glazed like she’s seeing something else - a future, maybe, that hasn’t yet happened, or a past that Jon can’t quite place - where Jon’s face should be. “Yes, you are.”

***

“What time do you have?”

Dan glances down at the tattoo of the watch on his wrist. “Five minutes after the last time you asked.”

Alyssa glares and reaches for Dan’s glass, taking a long, steadying sip with shaking fingers. “This is terrible. I hate gin.”

“Good thing it’s mine then.” Dan sighs. “And stop punishing me for not being able to speed up time.”

Jon turns his attention back to them so quickly that his drink tips on its base and he just catches it from falling. “People can _do_ that?”

“I met a man, once.” Alyssa sighs, her eyes gazing around the room. “What I wouldn’t give to have him here now.”

Dan snorts. “Didn’t he try to steal your crystal ball once from your apartment? While you were there?”

“He thought it’s where my powers came from.” Alyssa pushes Dan’s glass back across the table. Get me something better?”

Dan shakes his head, sliding off his stool. He grabs Jon’s half-full glass and steps around him. “I’ll get another round.”

Jon watches him go, the hairs on the back of his neck rising as Dan slips into the crowd of patrons. The speakeasy is crowded for a Tuesday night, men in government-issued ties and women in thick stockings and professional up-dos bent together under low lights designed to throw faces into shadow. They speak in a low hum, individual words indiscernible from the river of voices flowing in and around Jon.

“What are they talking about?” Jon asks, curiously, turning back to look at the tight lines around Alyssa’s eyes. She’s lost the round corners Jon’s been so drawn to, and he’s almost afraid of this shard-edged, hardened, no nonsense version of Alyssa who took her place the moment they left the troupe in Alexandria and boarded the train to DC.

“Everything and everybody.” Alyssa leans forward, dropping her own voice to fit amongst the thrum. “Nothing happens in DC that doesn’t come through this place.” She nods to a table in the corner, where two older men in dark suits are talking mostly with their hands, “Whitney v. California was decided at that table.” She tilts her head towards the table next to it, where a young woman is crying, “and the Smoot-Hawley tariff was finalized at that one.” She nods to a table with two young men in navy uniforms, their hands clasped in the center of the table, “and more than a few affairs started and ended in that corner.”

Jon watches one of the sailors lean across the table for a gentle, closed-mouth kiss. His heart somersaults as he looks back at Alyssa’s knowing eyebrow. He clears his throat. “How do you know all this?”

Alyssa’s eyes flick to a booth at the back of the speakeasy. “I watched it happen, predicted most of it. From right over there”

Jon swallows, trying to picture this harder Alyssa, a little younger, dressed in a tailored pantsuit in place of her overalls and in-character patterned skirts, sitting at that booth with a deck of cards and a no nonsense smile. “That couldn’t have made you very popular.”

“It didn’t.” Alyssa shrugs, her new lines looking like walls and Jon realizes with a start that the circus must have meant the same to her as it does to him. “After the time manipulator broke into my apartment I hired Rhodes to ward my rooms and my person. Best mage in the business. No one could come within five feet of me.”

Jon swallows, thinking about the Alyssa he’s seen naked in Dan’s sheets, leaning into Pri’s side helpless with laughter, kissing Emily over her morning coffee. “That sounds awfully lonely.”

“Safety in numbers doesn’t mean anything for our kind,” Alyssa shrugs. “Better to be lonely and safe than alone in a crowd.”

Jon’s spent his life being alone in a crowd. He’d surrounded himself with young men and women he could let into his body for a night, and then discard the next morning. He’d never let anyone closer than an arm’s length from him, building a wall with bricks of his father’s words around himself and stationed his power like guards at each of its vulnerable points. Until Emily waltzed right through every one of his defenses, he’d thought it was the safest way.

He’d never considered walling himself off entirely. That still sounds awfully lonely, although- The longer he spends in the circus, the more he wonders if he hasn’t gotten it wrong all along. Maybe he’s been lonely for so long that he’s forgotten there’s another way he can be, and it’s taken Dan’s gruff patience and Lovett’s immediate warmth and the vulnerability of Tommy’s strength for Jon to recognize the alternative.

Jon shakes his head. “You’re so much smarter than I ever was.”

Alyssa snorts, life dancing back into her eyes, for just the briefest moment, and Jon thinks he’d make a fool of himself over and over again if it’d stay there. “You’re just realizing that now?”

Jon shrugs easily. “I’ve never thought about it much before.”

“You’re even dumber than you look.”

“Maybe I’ve just been waiting for someone to push me.” Jon grins. “Or someones.”

“Maybe you need-” Alyssa trails off, her eyes flicking over Jon’s head. 

Jon watches the amusement drain from her eyes. She presses her hands flat on the table, still and cold, and Jon misses them instantly. Alyssa speaks all her emotions through her hands, and over the past few months Jon has learned how to read them for the truth behind her words. He feels lost again, like he had that first night in her wagon, like he’s treading water in an icy river, with no understanding of which way the current is rushing.

Jon turns his head to look, but Alyssa’s fingers twist tightly around his wrist. He jumps and glares at her. “What the fuck?”

“He’s here,” Alyssa hisses. “Don’t move.”

“What? I can’t just-”

“This man is dangerous.” Alyssa pinches Jon’s wrist hard enough to leave a mark. “You’re here to look pretty and stay out of the way until something goes wrong.”

Jon frowns at her, drawing his wrist into his chest and massaging it. “You should have brought Tommy for that.”

“And,” Alyssa continues, unabated, “something is bound to go wrong.”

Jon frowns at her. His wrist aches and his mind pulses around _until something goes wrong_, trying to parse whatever she’s saying in the spaces between the words. Alyssa wanted him here, was insistent on it. She doesn’t just want him to sit back and look pretty, not really, not unless-

Alyssa stands, smoothing out her skirt with unshaking hands. She holds one out. “Mr. Bracken, long time no see.”

“Marty, please. First names among old friends.” He reaches a hand out, his handshake firm. He’s wearing the same pinstripe suit and bowler hat he was wearing when Jon saw him a few days ago, and he gives Jon the same full-body review he gave him then. “I remember you.”

Jon holds out his hand. It’s shaking a little, despite himself. “Jon Favreau. It’s nice to see you again.”

“I’ve made it just in time for introductions,” Dan says, stepping around Marty to take his seat between Jon and Alyssa. He hands over the first glass. “I hope you like bourbon. This is the best in the house.”

“A good bourbon warms the soul.” Marty nods, a pleased smile on his face that Jon is absolutely certain Dan knew the Bourbon would put there. “Marty Bracken.”

“Marty is a trader with the Kahn Brothers,” Alyssa explains.

“Was.” Marty’s hand tightens around his glass. “They fired me after the crash.”

Alyssa swallows, raising her eyebrow a second too delayed to register actual surprise. “I’m sorry to hear that. Marty is one of the best traders around.”

“I made and lost twelve figures, for what that’s worth,” Marty shrugs. He takes a long sip of his drink, and smiles at Dan. The smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “And you are?”

“Dan Pfeiffer.” Dan nods, tipping his glass towards Marty’s conspiratorially. He crosses his legs carefully and calculatingly. “I’m the MC and work the books for the Batty Brothers circus. I’ve never even seen twelve figures.”

“Most people haven’t.” Marty nods at Alyssa. “I would have seen twelve figures two times over if I had listened to this woman.”

“Thrice,” Alyssa corrects. 

“Thrice.” Marty shakes his head. “She knows what the fuck she’s talking about.”

“And yet,” Alyssa sighs, crossing her own legs to put physical space between them, “instead of listening to me, you had me thrown out of the Capital.”

“I am awfully sorry about that.”

“Less thrown, actually-” Alyssa tilts her head thoughtfully- “and more unceremoniously dumped into the Potomac.”

“I’m awfully sorry about that, too.”

Alyssa sighs. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out the letter. She places it on the table in front of her, her fingers tapping it rhythmically. “What do you want, Marty?”

Marty takes off his hat and places it by his elbow. He leans back, his knees spread casually. “I don’t want anything but a bit of information. Easy, then you can go.”

“Easy,” Alyssa parrots. “You hunted me down, Marty.”

“Happenstance,” Marty shrugs. “I was in Richmond on business. It was just my luck that you were at that particular circus.”

“Luck,” Alyssa mutters under his breath. Then she looks up, her voice hardening. “What you put in this letter is binding. I answer one question, and you never mention my name again. Not to your cronies on Wall Street. Not to Presidents Hoover or Roosevelt. If anyone asks, you made your money back through a lucky happenstance.”

Dan taps Jon’s knee under the table, almost subtle enough to be a mistake.

Marty holds his hand out. “That’s the deal.”

Dan taps Jon’s knee again, but when Jon looks over, Dan’s eyes are trained on Marty.

“Okay.” Alyssa holds her hand out.

Jon looks at Dan; then at Alyssa, her face grim and her shoulders straight; then at Marty, that same smug look on his face Jon’s father always gets right before he signs a deal he can crow about later. The kind of deal he uses Jon to close. The kind of deal that is all upside for him and very little upside for his clients.

“Not so fast,” Jon says, pulling his knee away from Dan’s and pasting on his best smile. The one that stretches from ear to ear and highlights the green in his eyes. “You stand to make, what?, a hundred million?”

“A billion,” Marty corrects, “if you don’t screw me over.”

“We’re not going to do that,” Jon patronizes. “As long as you sweeten the pot.”

Marty snorts. “I don’t have any incentive to do that.”

“No?” Jon raises an eyebrow, ignoring Alyssa’s hissed “_Jon_” and the entire side of Dan’s body stilling along his side. “The way I see it, we have two options. Option A, we take the information we’re ready to hand to you and use it ourselves. A billion dollars will buy us an island, don’t you think? A small one in the Caribbean, where Alyssa can live out her days undisturbed by anything but island men and coconut drinks.”

Marty’s eyes dart to Alyssa and back to Jon. “And Option B?”

“Option B,” Jon nods, feeling his power flick down his arms and into his words, coating them with persuasion. “Is a compromise. We give you the information you want and we don’t have to go through all the paperwork for offshore accounts and buying real estate. Real estate agents are the worst, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Ahh,” Marty nods. “I’ve been screwed over by one or two in my time.”

“Exactly.” Jon dares a glance at Dan’s stony expression, his elbows pressed inwards and the sleeve of his shirt falling down to show a money symbol tattoo on the inside of his wrist, red and raw and fresh. “So, we’ll give you information for a fee. A percentage of what you’ll make, upfront. What do you think is fair? Ten percent?”

Marty frowns. “That would wipe out what savings I have left.”

Jon shrugs. His skin sizzles with his power, his smile spreading even wider, more convincing. “The price you pay now, for a fortune later. A billion dollars minus ten percent will still make you one of the richest men in Washington.”

“Or New York.” Marty nods, slowly. “London, even.”

“Or Berlin,” Jon nods. “Or Moscow.”

“I like the sound of that.” Marty tilts his head, thoughtfully.

Dan opens his mouth, but Jon stamps on his foot before he can say anything.

“Okay.” Marty nods. “Tell me what I need to know and you can come to the bank with me, after. I’ll get you your money.”

Jon nods. “That’s a fair compromise.”

Marty holds out his hand to Alyssa again. “Do we have a deal?”

Alyssa looks at Jon, her eyes wide and a little flashing with a bit of the Alyssa Jon knows as her voice wavers. When she holds out her hand, though, she’s firm and steady. “Deal.”

Marty shakes her hand, then pulls back. “So tell me where I need to invest what’s left of my savings to take advantage of this Depression.”

***

“I’ve closed a lot of deals,” Jon shakes himself as he steps out of the bank and into the lamplit street an hour or so later, “but never like this.”

“You don’t normally walk out holding the life savings of ten men?” Dan scoffs. He’s clutching tight to the bag, slung close over his chest and bulging with most of Marty Bracken’s significant fortune.

“Just their souls,” Jon deadpans, “signed over in blood.”

Jon _has_ closed a lot of deals, and while they weren’t signed in blood, they were signed with sweat and tears and a hope that Jon knew would never be fulfilled even as he signed his name next to theirs. Signatures from men down on their luck, desperate to scrape a few more months of rent payments from the bottom of the barrel. Signatures from men, their businesses hanging on the ropes, trying to fulfill their employees’ pensions. Signatures from men, filled with good intentions and little to no business sense, struggling to keep their buildings up to code as their tenants fall on harder and harder times. Signatures from men ripe for exploitation.

For the first time in Jon’s career, he’s walked away from a deal free from guilt. Marty had walked into their contract clear-eyed, more clear-eyed even than Jon had, and they both walked out better off. Dan, whether he’d meant to or not, had walked them into a trap and Jon had walked them right back out of it. He can’t help feeling like he’s passed a test he was set up to fail.

“Honestly?” Dan sighs, looking both ways before stepping off the curb and crossing the street. Union station is only a few blocks east, but they’re a harrowing few blocks dotted with shadows and shady characters. “I don’t know if I should believe you or not.”

“No souls,” Jon holds up his palms. He wonders if Dan and Alyssa can see the red blood stains he’s been working so hard to clean off of them. “Just livelihoods.”

Alyssa shakes her head, wrapping her arm around his elbow and using the leverage to step over a puddle. “You play a dangerous game.”

“Maybe,” Jon shrugs, pulling his elbow into his side and clutching her hand to him, desperate for her warmth. “But this one was well-deserved.”

Alyssa shakes her head. “What, we’re modern day Robin Hoods?”

Jon grins at her. “I’d like to think so.”

“Wasn’t Robin Hood captured and jailed?” Dan asks, looking over his shoulder as the shadow of a man in a long coat, his hat pulled low over his eyes, walking in step with them on the other side of the road.

“I’m pretty sure he escaped in the end,” Alyssa hums. “How long do your glamour spells last?”

“Long enough.” Jon grimaces. They turn the corner and the Union Station sign comes into view. “But we should make sure we’re on the next train out of town.”

Alyssa shivers, her fingers tightening around Jon’s elbow as she picks up her speed. “What do we do if he comes after us?”

“What did you use to do when clients came after you?”

“I hired the best mage in town,” Alyssa frowns. “And then I ran away to join the circus. I don’t know where circus performers run to.”

“Nowhere,” Dan sighs, catching up to them, still clutching the bag to his chest and watching the group of men congregating across the street. “Because he’s not going to come after us.”

“Dan’s right.” Jon smiles sideways at them. “He thinks he’s getting a big payout soon-”

“He _is _getting a big payout soon,” Alyssa meets his smile with a glare. “I know my shit.”

“I’m not stupid enough to disagree with that,” Jon snorts. “He’s going to make more than enough to brag to his friends and buy that mansion out on the cape to show off just how right you are. He’ll leave us alone.”

Alyssa takes the stairs into Union Station at a jog. “I hope you’re right.”

“I am,” Jon promises, with more conviction than he feels. “Besides, we now have a nest egg of our own. If he does come after us, I wasn’t lying about the island in the Caribbean.”

“I can think of a few other things to do with it,” Dan snorts. His eyes flick over the schedule board quickly, and points out their train. “Track 8. This is the first money we’ve ever had that’s ours. Not the boss’. Not the circus’. Ours.”

“Tastes like freedom,” Jon nods. “That’s the only thing my father preached that made any sense to me. Money does buy freedom.”

“I never thought I’d agree with that man on anything,” Alyssa shakes his head. She leads them down the track to the last car. The stairs are rickety, and she takes Jon’s hand to leverage herself up them, her fingers lingering in his palm. “But broken clocks.”

“Are right twice a day.” Jon falls into the closest batch of four seats as the train hoots and whistles its eminent departure. “I shudder to imagine the second thing he’s right about.”

Dan snorts, stepping over Jon and sliding into the window seat next to Alyssa. He settles the bag of money between the wall and his thigh, wedging it tight and out of view. “The only thing that lies down that path is madness.”

Dan crosses his legs, his ankle tapping against Alyssa’s shin and his knees brushing Jon’s.

“Well,” Alyssa smiles at them, reaching into her own bag and pulling out a bottle of wine. “I say we celebrate. To surviving another brush with danger.”

Jon shakes his head, reaching for the bottle and twisting the cork out with all the experience of his years in Boston. “And to having some money of our own. Where’d you get this?”

“I nabbed it,” Alyssa shrugs. She reaches for the bottle, taking a long sip as she slides down in her seat, her side pressed tightly against Dan’s. She’s losing her hard edges one by one, sinking into Dan and easing her body into his, like she’s re-absorbing her soul from where she left it curled in his chest. “This town owes me.”

Dan grins, wrapping his fingers around hers and pulling the bottle towards his mouth. “It owes you more than a mediocre table wine.”

“I take installments,” Alyssa shrugs. She leans up to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “And I have everything I need.”

Dan grins into her mouth. “You amaze me, you know that?”

Alyssa snorts, pulling back and dragging the bottle with her. It’s halfway to her mouth when her smile slips and her body goes rigged. Not the forced mask she donned piece by piece at the speakeasy, like she was fitting into an abhorred but well-worn costume. But an instantaneous river of ice that shivers up her legs and through her spine and crests over her head.

The wine bottle slips from her fingers, shattering on the floor, splattering their shoes with red and glass. 

Jon jumps out of his seat, glancing around them automatically and relieved to find their car still empty. “What-?” He starts to ask as he kneels down, picking the largest pieces of glass into his hand, but freezes when he sees Alyssa’s eyes, wide and glassy, all their vibrancy leached into the pink of her cheeks. “Alyssa.”

Dan shifts, wrapping his arms around her chest and holding her steady. “Help me,” he grits out.

Jon drops the glass into a pile and reaches for her knees, getting one in his gut and another hard enough against his ribs to bruise before he gets his arms securely around her. He can feel her battering against his hold, shaking through her convulsions and rattingling through his bones. He looks up wildly, to see Dan’s finger between her teeth and his eyes focused on her. 

Jon gasps. “What can we do?”

Dan shakes his head. There’s sweat on his forehead and his arms are strained. “Nothing.”

“There has to be something,” Jon growls, shifting to get a better hold on her calves. His knee grinds into a piece of glass and he grits through it. “Fuck.”

Dan glances down at him, his brow furrowing. “Just hold her tight.”

Jon glares, his eyes flashing, “I am.”

Alyssa stills. In the space of two breaths, her body stops thrashing, and instead melts between them. Jon leans up on his knees, ignoring the throbbing his kneecap, and holds her steady.

“Are you okay?” Jon asks, his throat feeling wet and thick.

Dan, though, sits up, his eyes flashing like lightning through a midnight sky. His hands grip her shoulders, blood dripping from the finger she’d bit into the cotton of her skirt. “What did you see?”

She blinks, her eyelashes wet. The glass film disappears and color bursts back into her eyes, deep and haunted. “_Emily_.”

Dan swallows. “What’s going to happen?”

“She’s-” Alyssa shakes her head. She blinks quickly, tears filling her eyes. Her voice is small and choked. “It’s such a long way to fall. There’s so much time for her to think. She’s so scared.”

“She’s going to be okay.” Dan nods, squeezing her shoulders. “I’ll keep her off the trapeze forever if that’s what it takes.”

Alyssa shakes her head, sinking into Dan’s side. She pulls her legs out of Jon’s grasp, drawing her knees to her chest and resting her head on Dan’s thigh. “It’ll be too late.”

Dan runs his hand through her hair, his fingers shaking. “Tonight?”

Alyssa nods. Her freckles are warm and dark on her pale face. “We’re going to be too late.”

Jon sits back on his heels. His throat is choked and his knee is aching. The back of his neck is cold and his hair is standing on end. “Too late for what?”

“To save her.” Alyssa’s eyes are wet and bright as she catches Jon’s. “To save any of us.”

Jon shakes his head. “It can’t be. What’s the point of having visions if there’s nothing you can do about them?”

Alyssa shakes her head, her cheek pressed tightly to Dan’s thigh. “It’s the cross I bear.”

“I don’t buy that,” Jon insists. He wraps his fingers around her knee and squeezes. “I _can’t_ buy that. If it was, what are we doing here?”

“Jon,” Dan says, warningly.

“I have to believe that my future isn’t set in fire and brimstone. I didn’t get a second chance just to burn it all down,” Jon continues, unabated. He leans closer, ignoring the sting in his knee and the ache in his heart, trading them in for the heat of her body. “You know who taught me that?”

Alyssa swallows, turning her hand over and twisting her fingers with Jon’s. “You’re an incredible man, Jon Favreau.”

Jon smiles at her the best he can. “You taught me that, too.”

Alyssa’s eyes blink closed and, as she struggles to open them again, Dan tangles her fingers in her hair. “Sleep, love. We’ll wake you when we get to our stop.”

She struggles against it, but Jon can see the effects of her vision in the exhausted lines around her eyes and the softening of her fingers in his. He watches her as her breathing evens out, then counts a baker’s dozen before he leans back, shifting his knee so that he can get a handle on the glass stuck shallowly in his skin. “Fuck.”

Dan leans back in his own seat, hissing as he bows his back, lifting the hem of his shirt gently so as not to wake Alyssa. “Fuck,” he parrots.

Jon tosses the glass aside, flinching as his knee aches around the wound. He forgets all about his injury, though, when he sees the ink on Dan’s ribs. A black and white outline of a trapeze, starting at his armpit and extending halfway down his ribs. A trapeze artist, her eyes milky as Tanya’s, her thighs bunched with elegant strength to hold herself upside down on the trapeze. Her arms are outstretched, her fingers spread and her arms slender and just as strong. There’s a hand stretching towards hers, a second woman with Emily’s pin-up hair-do and perfect face, eyes spread wide in fear, her legs flung in desperation as she disappears down into Dan’s waistband.

Dan’s skin is pink and raw around Emily’s falling form, the ink fresh and dotted with blood.

Dan swallows. “Alyssa’s right. We’re too late.”

Jon leans forward, his hand raised. “Can I?”

Dan sucks in a breath, his skin rippling under the tattoo as he nods. Jon inches forward, tracing the outline with his fingertip. He gets to Tanya’s hand and he can see faint outline of what was there before: Emily’s hands in Tanya’s, their fingers clinging together, grins on their faces, as Emily hangs in a perfect line, her legs and arms pressed together in flight.

“This must have been beautiful,” Jon breathes.

Dan lets out the breath he’s been holding, his skin expanding into Jon’s hand. “It showed up six months before Emily joined us. She recruited Tanya six months after that.”

“Did you know right away?” Jon asks, trailing his finger along tattoo-Emily’s open mouth, almost able to hear her scream in his ears.

“That they were mine?” Dan asks softly.

“That they had powers like yours,” Jon corrects, looking up at Dan. Dan’s already looking at him, his eyes as blue as a winter’s sky, an open expanse, if Jon would allow himself to go there. “But, yeah, that they belonged to you, too.”

“With me,” Dan corrects. “The circus is the only place where we can be equals, regardless of our gender, or the color of our skin, or the circumstances of our birth. Our relationship is built on those same principles.”

Jon swallows. “An even playing field.”

“For everyone.” Dan nods, pointedly, his eyes flicking to the money still pressed against his thigh. “To answer your question, I knew with Em and T. They fit into my heart like I’ve had a space waiting for them my entire life. They weren’t all that easy.”

Jon swallows, glancing down at Alyssa, still breathing slow and shallow, her cheek pressed into Dan’s thigh and her mouth open. “Alyssa?”

Dan chuckles, letting the hem of his shirt fall and holding out his hand for Jon to see. His index finger is bleeding where Alyssa had bit down on it, but Jon’s focused on the back of his hand. Spreading across most of his skin there’s an intricately drawn tarot card with the image of a cup, floating above the clouds and overflowing into the pond below. “I’ve had this tattoo since I was eight years old. Alyssa’s had a space in my heart since I knew what that could mean. It just took us an awfully long time to find each other.”

Jon nods, slowly, barely holding his hand back from touching it. He’s seen it, flashes of it at least, but he’s never questioned its significance. He feels so stupid, now, with Dan’s skin radiating meaning. “Was this your first?”

Dan shakes his head. His fingers tremble as he reaches for the buttons on his shirt, undoing the top four and pulling it back on the left. There’s a mess of lines, words and images criss-crossing his chest and twisting together, but in the center is a faint sparrow, shaded in grey with a red highlight on its head, both colors faded and faint. 

“I was born a bastard. The son of a man traveling through Delaware, on business or for the purpose of my birth, I’ll never know. My adoptive father married my mother the moment he found out she was pregnant.” Dan traces the sparrow with his finger. “He called this tattoo my mark of shame. The burden I had to carry for not being his son.”

Jon nods. He’s known more than a few men like that, and more than a few sons.

“My mother told the doctors it was a birthmark. I’ve always known it was for her. She always loved the sound of sparrows in spring. A new day, she’d say, with a whole world of opportunities.” Dan sighs bitterly. “My mother was always more optimistic than the world deserves. Just, not about me.”

Jon watches Dan trace the faded outline of the sparrow, the ink sinking into Dan’s skin, fading as memories do when not tethered by love and attention. “Mine, too.”

“When Alyssa’s tattoo came in, my mother spent every cent her husband made in the factories on powders and creams to cover it. _The world won’t understand_, she always said.” Dan scoffs. “But I knew the truth. She was more scared of me than the world was.”

Jon pictures his mother, the way she had been the last dozen times he saw her, curled in her chair in her library, blocking out the world and its cruelties in favor of fairy tales. Jon can feel the bitterness in Dan’s tone tainting the memories, and Jon pulls away from them, forcing himself back to the present.

“Delaware wasn’t a safe place, so I took the first opportunity I found to get out.” Dan shakes himself, his eyes clearing as he pulls himself back to the present, too. “One early spring day, my classmates went down to the river. The frost had just thawed, and the water was high and fast. I folded my clothes on the shore next to my boots and never looked back.”

Jon sits back on his heels. “What do they think happened to you?”

“They shilled out for a headstone, that always surprised me. _Dedicated son, taken before his time_.” Dan snorts. “What a load of bullshit. They were happier when I was gone.”

Jon tries to think about his own mother, dressed all in back and pretending - _actually_? - grieving. That would require her to come out of the library, where she’s almost assuredly resting now, pretending that it hasn’t been months since she’s seen her eldest son. “Do you ever regret it?”

“No,” Dan says, easily. “I saved them a lifetime of hurt, and gave myself the chance to find my own family.”

Jon shakes his head. It feels light. “You make it sound so easy.”

Dan lets the right side of his shirt fall closed and peels back the left side. There’s a tiger curled over his heart, its colors magnificent and vibrant. “When I climbed out of the river on the other side, this was here, right over my heart. I found Elijah three days later.”

Jon folds his hands in his lap so that he doesn’t reach out to touch. “You have a tattoo for everyone?”

Dan nods. He rolls up the cuff of his shirt to unveil a plant on his right bicep. “Tommy. I didn’t understand this one for a long time, but, once I did, I knew that he was meant to be with us.”

Jon traces the outline of the plant with his eyes. He’s seen this plant in Tommy’s garden, perched in the place of honor on the first shelf. “He was one of the harder ones?”

Dan nods, dropping the cuff of his shirt and tracing his left eyebrow. It’s misshapen, growing crooked over an age-old scar, but mostly covered by the tattoo of an elephant rising out of a bed of vibrant flames. “Pri, too. There’s a story behind this one. Tommy might tell you sometime, if you ask nicely.”

Jon smiles, despite himself. “Oh, I definitely will. Who was next?”

Dan drops his hand down his neck, tracing a long line of text that stretches from his ear into the collar of his shirt. “The first thing Lovett ever said to me. He dug himself a space in my heart even as he was reaching into my coat to pick my pockets.”

Jon chuckles. “I can picture that perfectly.”

“I thought you might.” Dan snorts, turning his hand over and holding it out. There’s a medical symbol on this wrist in bold, black outlines. Two snakes entwined around a winged staff. “I was convinced I was dying. For _months_. I’ve never been so relieved to have someone walk into my life as I was when Michael came to us a year or so later, asking for a job.”

“Sounds about right.” Jon shifts, wishing Michael were here right now to take a look at his knee and Dan’s fingers, leaving drops of blood every time he moves. “That’s everyone.”

Dan hesitates, letting his wrist drop into his lap. He looks away, tearing his eyes from Jon’s and focusing on the hem of his shirt. He tears a strip of it and wraps it tightly around his bleeding finger. “That’s everyone.”

Jon frowns. “Dan?”

Dan takes a deep breath. He lifts his hips so he can slide his pants down just far enough to show a pair of hands in the hollow of his hip. “This came in the night Alyssa had her vision about you.”

Jon leans forward, his breath caught in his throat. He reaches out without asking, his fingers tracing the elegant shading. The hands are long and thin, but calloused and dark from days of hard labour under the blinding sun.

“I didn’t recognize them,” Dan swallows, his voice low. “Not until tonight, watching you make a deal with Marty fucking Bracken.”

Jon traces down the tattoo of the hands to the cuffs of a dress shirt, held together with two unpolished cufflinks. Jon looks down at his own hands, disappearing into the shirt he’d been wearing when he was kidnapped in Dallas and repurposed for tonight, worse for wear but more appropriate than his circus linens.

“I didn’t understand,” Dan continues, softly. “I still don’t understand.”

Jon tears his eyes away from the tattoo of his own hands and catches Dan’s eyes looking down at him. “You don’t only have tattoos for- Most of these come and go, right? They represent, what? Things happening in your life?”

Dan nods slowly. “Events and emotions, yes.”

“This could be that, right?” Jon shakes himself. “Nothing more than a symbol of my arrival.”

“Sure,” Dan says, slowly, his eyes not looking away from Jon’s. His tone is easy and light, like he doesn't believe what he’s saying for a moment. “It could be that.”

Jon’s hand is burning from the heat of Dan’s skin. “What else could it be?”

The loudspeaker crackles and fills the cabin with a bored, mechanical voice. “Next stop is Alexandria. Doors open on the left at Alexandria. Please gather your belongings and make your way to the closest exit. Again, next stop is Alexandria.”

Dan lifts his hips, pulling his pants up. He shakes Alyssa’s shoulder gently. “Wake up, love, we’ve arrived.”

Alyssa sits up. Her face is creased with wrinkles from Dan’s pants and her eyes are bloodshot. She’d looked so peaceful in sleep, but now she looks like she hasn’t slept a moment.

Jon swallows, the warm feeling of possibility disappearing as the train pulls into the station with a piercing whistle. 

Dan rubs at his ribs, slinging the money bag over his head and reaching for Alyssa’s elbow. He presses his lips to Alyssa’s head as they wait for the train to come to a full stop, murmuring, “hold on just a little longer, Em, we’re coming.”


	9. Baltimore to York, PA

**Baltimore, Maryland 1934**

There’s a hush over the grounds. Even those who don’t know Emily well are used to the generosity of her presence weaving in and out of the tents. Emily made herself known everywhere, and even the set-up and tear-down workers miss the sound of her voice and the brightness of her smile.

They’ve done three shows since Emily flew just a little too far through the air, missing the tips of Tanya’s fingers and tumbling fifteen feet to the net below. Jon has heard accounts from a dozen people, each of them more impossible and more terrifying than the last. The one that’s stuck with him is Tommy’s whispered, “her body bounced a dozen times. Like a rag doll. She’s never seemed fragile, before.”

They’ve done three shows and, contrary to popular opinion, they aren’t getting any easier. Jon feels unmoored, juggling a grief that feels outsized for his role in it and undersized compared to everyone else’s and the new leadership position he’s taken with the circus itself. Dan had disappeared the moment they arrived back in Alexandria, with a knowing touch to Alyssa’s shoulder and the money bag still clutched close to his chest, and Jon hasn’t seen him since. It’s Lovett who had told him, his voice low and choked, “the show is yours,” more as a challenge than a question.

Jon had dreamed, not even a week ago, about doing the show from end to end. About a full three hours basking in the smiling faces of thousands of adoring fans. But, not like this. Not when he has to look at Pri’s red-rimmed eyes as she jogs into the ring, not when Tommy squeezes his hand sympathetically as he jogs out of the spotlight, not when Lovett’s songs have grown melancholy and morbid. Not when Jon himself has to choke back tears every time he introduces their backup acrobatic act.

Jon isn’t ready for this.

Jon isn’t ready for any of this.

He wraps up their second show in Baltimore, bowing to the audience and then lengthening his stride on his way out of the ring. He ignores Pri’s cheer for him to take his standing ovation. He ignores Tommy’s worried call of his name. He ignores the lights from the Big Top and the cheers of the crowd as he stomps through camp towards Dan’s wagon.

He’s not sure what he’s going to say when he gets there, although “what the fuck?” seems like a good place to start.

_If_ he ever gets there. If the crowds would get out of his way, if the cheering and the chatter and the excitement of the circus goes would quiet, if he could just fucking _think_ for five minutes without the weight of the whole damn troupe pressing down on his shoulders, if-

“Oh,” a voice says, soft and familiar, rushed out with a gasp as Jon runs bodily into him. “Sorry, I didn’t see- Jon?”

Jon looks up, his heart aching as he sees the worn flannel shirt and thick beard. Even after all this time, even after the things he said the last time they talked, just the sight of him dampens the thundering in Jon’s chest. “Elijah?”

Elijah frowns, eyeing Jon from head to toe, his forehead wrinkling. His voice is softer than it was the last time. “Are you okay? You look awful.”

“How would you know?” Jon bites out, the words leaving him before he has the chance to form and vet them. His head feels heavy, like it might crack under the pressure, and- “I haven’t seen you in _weeks_.”

Elijah flinches. “You haven’t exactly been seeking me out, either.”

“After the last time we talked?” Jon scoffs. “Figured you didn’t want much more to do with me. What was it you called me? Oh, right, a debt you owed and paid.”

“Not everything is so black and white,” Elijah sighs. “That wasn’t all I told you.”

“No,” Jon says, bitterly. “Burning an entire circus troupe to the ground isn’t something I’m going to forget anytime soon.”

“I have no doubts about that.” Elijah’s shoulders sag and he looks so much like the boy Jon remembers that Jon reaches out, his hand hanging awkwardly between them. Elijah’s eyes drop, smiling sadly. “Do you ever think about that boy you were when we first met?”

“All the time,” Jon admits. He can feel a headache forming, thick and heavy, behind his eyes. He’s so, so tired. “But not as much as I think about you.”

Elijah looks away, his cheeks flushed in the low twilight and his shoulders tight under his shirt, like he’s holding himself back from everything Jon remembers and Jon thinks he wants again.

“Every day,” Jon adds, shrugging helplessly. “I thought about you every day.”

“Me too,” Elijah admits, quietly. “Not that it did me any good.”

“Elijah-”

Elijah swallows, his eyes flicking to the wagon behind him which, Jon realizes, he’d been leaving when Jon ran into him. It’s painted in purples and blues, bright as the night sky and no less magical. Elijah looks back, catching his eyes. “She’s still asleep, but she wouldn’t mind a visitor.”

Jon swallows. He hasn’t visited yet, but- “Yeah.” He takes a step towards the wagon. “Elijah?”

Elijah pauses, already halfway through a step away from him.

“I’m trying.” Jon takes a deep breath around his aching heart. “I’m trying to become a man worth saving.”

Elijah nods, the ghost of a smile on his lips. Then he turns and slips into the crowd.

Jon watches him go until the tuft of his hair is lost, and a minute or so after that, before he turns. He takes another deep breath, and jogs up the steps two at a time.

Jon pushes the door open, as slowly and carefully as he can. The wagon is quiet and dark as he takes a step inside, feeling like an intruder.

From Tommy and Lovett’s recollections, Jon’s been able to piece together a timeline that suggests Emily fell just minutes after Alyssa’s vision, at the same moment Dan’s tattoo had shifted. While Dan was showing Jon the evidence of his history, written across his body in black and grey and vibrant color, Michael had been fighting for Emily’s life. Before the train had even arrived in Alexandria, Michael had stabilized her, and by the time Jon and Alyssa arrived back in camp, Michael had her ensconced in her wagon, resting and, for the most part, on her way to healing, if, in his words, “she wakes up at all.”

Jon hasn’t been back to see her since. Partly because of his new duties in the ring and partly because he’s been giving her partners time with her, but mostly because he’s been dreading seeing her again, so pale against her bedsheets, all the life and color that makes Emily _Emily_ seeped out of her and into that safety net that maybe, hopefully, _had to have_ saved her life.

“Jon.”

Jon blinks his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He can see Tanya’s outline, curled tightly between the wall and Emily’s bed, her legs pulled under her and her feet bare. She’s swathed in shawls, one Jon recognizes as Alyssa’s and another as Emily’s. Her thin shoulders are still shaking as she looks up at him, her eyes rimmed in red.

“Yeah,” Jon swallows. “How is she?”

“No change.” Tanya’s grip tightens. She isn’t wearing her ever-present gloves and, even as soft and sun-starved as they are, her fingers are a dark, flushed contrast to Emily’s pale, unmoving hand. “Michael says her body is protecting itself so that she can heal.”

Jon nods, sliding into the empty chair across from her. He sits on the edge, his knees brushing against Emily’s bed. “A coma, yeah.”

Tanya leans forward, her back bowing so that she can brush Emily’s hair off her forehead as she repeats, “a coma.”

“People come out of them all the time. My mother,” Jon swallows around her name. It’s been a long time since he’s talked about her. “She volunteers at Mass General. She had daily stories about people coming out of comas, healed and healthy.”

Tanya frowns. “This isn’t Mass General.”

“No,” Jon agrees. “But Mass General doesn’t have Michael, so, in my view, we’re still a few points ahead.”

Tanya takes a deep breath, her chest moving visibly under her shawls. She looks thinner, even, than usual. “The best doctor in the world can only treat her body.”

Jon frowns, leaning forward, trying to read something, anything, in the way Emily’s forehead is furrowed in sleep, in the twitch of her eyebrows and the trembling of her lips, like, maybe, she wants to scream but can’t find the voice to. Jon shivers. “She’s dreaming.”

“Nightmares,” Tanya corrects, running a finger down Emily’s temple, smoothing out the pained lines, even if for just a moment. “Nightmares of destruction and loss, everything we’ve built going up in flames.”

Jon flinches. “She’s dreaming about me?”

Tanya rolls her eyes, sitting back and placing her un-gloved hand loosely in her lap. “About all of us but, yes, despite my best efforts, that includes you.”

Jon feels a pang of vindication. “So you _have_ been avoiding me.”

“Not avoiding.” Tanya takes a deep breath. “Dan told me what you did in DC.”

Jon’s head thrums at the non-sequitur and his chest thuds at Dan’s name. “It wasn’t anything more than Alyssa deserves- deserve_d _years ago.”

“Maybe.” Tanya bites her lip. “But in righting past wrongs, you’ve given us freedom. And you’ve-“

“It really wasn’t-“

“You’ve really got to stop interrupting,” Tanya sighs. “You still think you’re the most important person in every room you enter.”

Jon flushes. That’s been the hardest instinct for Jon to tamp down over the past few months. He’s reluctantly gotten used to three square meals a day of legumes, and he’s gradually gotten used to the dirt under his fingernails and the feel of well-worn linen against his skin. His father had spent three decades, though, honing Jon’s power - both his glamour and the power of the station he was born into - and Jon can't just tamp it down. He needs it, in the ring. But, he supposes, he doesn't need it quite so much outside of the ring anymore.

“Better.” Tanya snorts. Her mouth twists up with just a hint of amusement. “You could have taken the money, hopped a train out of DC, and ran with it.”

Jon blinks. The thought honestly hadn’t crossed his mind, although now that she says it, he should have. He would have, not all that long ago. Taken the money and run back to his father, paid it as interest on the months lost on the Dallas deal, and never looked back.

Jon shivers as he pictures where he’d be right now if he’d done that. He can picture himself sitting in his everyday finery, his back straight and proper, squinting through the dim light to make out his mother's disappointment and his father's smugness across the dinner table. His hands would be folded in his lap so as not to flip the table in existential rage, although he wouldn't know why. He'd just feel a deep and inescapable sense of loss.

He wouldn't even know Emily was injured. He wouldn't know Dan's story and he wouldn't know how much he's missing of Tanya's. 

Jon leans forward, his elbows on his knees. "You're right to think that I would have, before. I hope the fact that I didn't means something."

"It means something," Tanya agrees. She pulls her ankles under her, adjusting her shawls and mirroring his body language even though she can’t see him. "At least this is a version of you I'm interested in getting to know."

"Ask me anything." Despite Emily lying, so pale and still between them, Jon grins at her. "I'm an open book."

"I'm glad to hear that." Tanya shifts to the edge of her seat, holding her ungloved hand out. Her fingers are long and thin and so strong that Jon can't imagine Emily slipping through them. Except it’s also all he can imagine, the moment when air had passed between them, when Tanya had tried to stretch impossibly further, when Emily’s hands had clenched into fists, when her eyes had gone wide as they’d connected with Tanya’s milky ones.

Tanya's smile slips as the silence stretches between them. She flexes her fingers. "Take my hand?"

She sounds vulnerable and small, two things Jon has never thought of her as. He swallows and holds his hand out, not quite touching hers. "You'll be able to see what's inside my mind?"

Tanya's shoulders relax a little as she steps onto more familiar ground. "Only what you want me to see."

Jon nods slowly. "I can control it?"

Tanya shrugs and corrects, "only what you want me to see, subconsciously or consciously. What does your subconscious want me to see, Jon?"

Jon swallows. "I don't know."

Tanya holds her hand out again, her fingers stretching towards him. "Why don't we find out?"

Jon clears his throat, trying to build a wall in his mind, closing off anything that doesn't feel bland and banal and incriminating. But as his fingers twist with Tanya's, his palm singing with heat and his mind bursting to light, illuminating spaces he didn't even know he was hiding memories, he knows instantly how useless the attempt was.

Tanya shifts through his mind like it's a deck of cards, discarding most of his thoughts and memories without a second glance, but tripping up on a few. Some of them pulled from so far back in Jon's subconscious that he doesn't even remember them.

Jon, sixteen and just weeks into his apprenticeship at Favreau Industries, touring a property in the garment district with his father. It was long abandoned, windows full of shattered glass and the floors covered in piles of leaves and dirt that served as beds for the squatters filling the deserted rooms. Jon's heart had ached as one of his father's associates had kicked and spat on them as they passed. 

Jon, twenty-one and a year into his partnership at Favreau Industries, dressed in his most tailored suit, his glamour on full blast as he wined and dined a new client at the Fairmont. When he'd looked up to order a bottle of their most expensive wine, he'd seen their waiter and frozen. He was wearing a thin, professional smile, a bastardization of the smile he'd worn in Jon's bed the week before. When he'd suggested he might know Jon, though, Jon had gotten him reassigned from their table and, possibly, the restaurant. Jon had never checked.

Jon, eight years old and so desperate to be liked by a young boy with curly hair and a soft smile, a young boy who could talk to animals and who talked to Jon like was worth something. The hope Jon had felt, if only for the few hours between meeting him and his father pinching Jon's ear and sending him to bed without dinner.

Tanya pulls back, slowly, leaving remnants of herself in Jon's darkest spaces. Jon clings to them as his body shivers, cold and bereft, in her absence. He pulls his knees onto his chair, curling into himself and leaning forward. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. For the things that she saw. For not wanting her to leave.

Tanya shakes her head slowly, a twist of a smile on her face. “You and I have more in common than you think. I know your flavor of fear.”

Jon frowns at her. “I don’t have a flavor of fear.”

“You don’t?” Tanya raises an eyebrow. “Seems to me you liked that waiter.”

“I did.” Jon nods, remembering the tilt of his smile and the sound of his laughter, for the first time in years. “You saw him, he was nice. If things were different, I would have liked to see him again.”

“And instead,” Tanya nudges him, “you had him fired.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” Jon sighs. “If my father had found out, being fired would have felt like a stay of execution.”

“For both of you,” Tanya nods. “And, you wanted to help those squatters.”

“Wanted,” Jon agrees, “but didn’t.”

Tanya tilts her head, her expression devoid of judgement. “Why didn’t you?”

“I was an asshole,” Jon shrugs, “who cared more about impressing my father than about their well-being.”

“An asshole who cared more about sparing your father’s wrath,” Tanya corrects. “When you were eight, you thought about running away.”

Jon flushes, ducking his head. That part of his memory lights and warms, as if she’s still touching him there. “I packed a suitcase, got all the way to the end of the block before our butler found me.”

Tanya grins at him. “It’s too bad he was immune to your power. You could have joined the circus twenty-four years ago. Would have saved both you and Elijah a lot of trouble.”

Jon flinches at Elijah’s name. “I could have been a better man.”

“Yes,” Tanya nods. “You’ve been making decisions out of self-preservation for a long time. No man or woman is at their best when making decisions out of fear.”

“I wasn’t smart enough to get out,” Jon whispers. “I never would have, if Tommy and-“ He glances down at Emily’s still body, so different from the vibrant woman who first seduced him- “Em hadn’t kidnapped me and offered me my freedom.”

Tanya snorts. “No one chooses that life voluntarily.”

Jon frowns. “You-?”

“I,” Tanya points to herself, her hand shaking, “found out my husband was planning on torturing me in the name of scientific advancement. On my wedding night. Emily offered me a chance to get out, and it wasn’t a choice at all.”

Jon’s throat feels thick and wet as he laughs around it. “Emily has a habit of kidnapping people, huh?”

“Oh yes.” Tanya smiles, reaching to take Emily’s hand in her ungloved one again. “It’s a bad habit. It’s going to get her in trouble someday, if she isn’t careful.”

_If she ever wakes up_, Jon’s mind unhelpfully corrects. “I thought I was the trouble.”

Tanya laughs, her shoulders folding inward as she shakes with it. “You’re a lost puppy, Jon. I can handle your kind of trouble.”

“But,” Jon frowns at her, “I’m going to bring fire down upon you.”

Tanya shrugs. “Anyone who means anything at all brings with them a certain type of fire.”

Jon looks down at Emily’s pale face, her blond hair hanging loose and greasy, her cheeks and eyes missing the fire that usually burns too bright within her. “Huh.”

Tanya looks up, her unseeing eyes catching his unerringly. “Perspective is everything.”

***

Jon hasn’t been sleeping. He doesn’t know if Tanya did it intentionally or not, but her ruffling through his memories drudged up a few he’d rather have kept buried. Burying them again has proven even more difficult than it had been the first time around.

The sun is just starting to rise on their first morning in Pennsylvania. He’d only fallen asleep a few hours before, after the wagons stopped trudging through the muddy roads and had settled in a fairground just north of York. During those few hours, though, Jon had been assaulted by memories of his father, his father’s hand, his father’s belt, the way Jon’s skin had stung and his mind had spiraled, down down down, hiding under layers of _Jon Favreau, Heir to Favreau Industries _and _Jon Favreau, Boston’s most notorious playboy_.

He wakes in a cold sweat, the back of his hand stinging as if his father had hit him just this morning. In the cool pre-morning air, Jon shivers, remembering the way his father’s eyes had narrowed and heated, the way he’d asked Jon questions as if they were statements, the way he’d spoken, low and cold and condescending. Jon lies awake, drawing his new sense of self around his heart like it can keep him warmer than his wool blankets, reminding himself that he has a choice, that everything he does is a choice. He feels raw and vulnerable, the edges of his new awareness pink and uncalloused and not nearly ready, yet, to hold back the full weight of his father’s wrath. 

In the light of day, he can pretend that who he wants to be and who he is are one and the same. He can tell Elijah that he’s a changed man, he can smile and commiserate with Tanya, he can laugh at Lovett’s jokes and believe that Tommy understands him, the real him. But in this moment of truth, the moment between sleeping and waking, the moment when awareness and agency are seeping slowly back into his bones, Jon knows that he’s nothing more than fragile fragments of a man, held together by hope and guilt and sheer willpower.

Jon rubs his thumbs over the bridge of his nose. He’s struggling to pull himself together when he hears the sound of footsteps outside. He sits up, reaching for his pants and pulling them on over his long johns. There’s only two people who would be up at this hour, now that the tents have been set-up and anyone on the ground crew is sleeping off a long night in their own tents. Jon isn’t quite up for another fight with Elijah, but he’ll risk it for just the chance that it’s the other option.

Jon grimaces as his wagon door bangs loudly closed behind him. Camp is silent except for the trill of birds in the trees and the sound of men snoring in the tents. Jon walks softer, blinking in the first hint of light to see the footsteps and follow them into the woods on the outskirts of camp.

He swears when he gets to the edge of the undergrowth. Jon grew up in downtown Boston, he can fill his pinkie finger with everything he knows about tracking someone in the woods. The river seems like a good idea though, so he follows the sound of the water to its banks and, yep, there he is, standing waist-deep in the water, soap bubbles obscuring the bulk of his chest tattoos.

Jon stops on the bank, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Dan jumps, his back rippling as his muscles tighten, barely catching himself on the slippery rocks. He turns, slowly. “Jon.”

Jon nods, his shoulders sliding up to cover his ears. He realizes, stupidly, that he should have waited to do this until his edges felt a little less ragged and prone to tearing. “I haven’t seen you much this week.”

Dan nods. There’s a new tattoo stretching all the way down the left side of his neck, half-obscured by the shell of his ear so that Jon can’t quite make out what it is. “We’ve been just missing each other.”

“I’ve been here.” It comes out more accusatory that Jon means it to be. “Running _your_ show.”

Dan swallows, his chest rippling. Jon can’t look away from the way Elijah’s tiger moves with Dan’s muscles, posing as if it’s preparing to leap. “Not just my show, anymore. Tommy and Lovett have told me what a wonderful job you’ve been doing. And,” Dan smiles ruefully, “Pri asked if you could introduce her act every time. ‘He gets the crowd amped much better than you do,’ I think were her exact words.”

Jon shivers, tearing his hands out of his pockets only to cross them across his chest, right over the part that bursts into flames at her words. “So it’s just me you’ve been avoiding.”

The tiger on Dan’s chest crouches low. Dan sighs deeply. “Not just you.”

Jon’s breath catches in his throat. He casts about for something, anything to say that can make Dan feel the same gaping emptiness Jon is feeling, and settles on- “She’s doing better,” tossing the words across the river like he’s skipping them across the water.

Dan’s throat tightens, his new tattoo rippling and darkening. 

Jon nods. “You should go see her. Tanya thinks that she knows when people visit her.”

Dan’s entire body tenses. He drops his eyes to the water, reaching down to run river water over the bar of soap lying in this palm. He holds it out, stiffly. “There’s more than enough for both of us.”

It’s more a challenge than anything else, and Jon sighs. He wraps his new sense of self tightly around himself as he reaches for the hem of his shirt, meeting challenge for challenge, but Dan doesn’t look away and he doesn’t tell Jon to stop. Jon doesn’t either. He folds his shirt on a rock just barely touched by the rising sun. He adds his pants to the pile, then starts with the buttons of his long johns and, with a deep breath, throws them over the pile.

He steps into the river, shivering as the cool water hits him, making his skin pimple. He crosses his arms over his chest, crossing into the center of the river, stopping in a strip of purple and orange sunrise, a foot or so from Dan.

Dan holds out the soap, his fingers brushing against Jon’s. They’re trembling. “I wasn’t avoiding you.”

Jon takes a deep breath. His emotions feel as naked as his body as he pulls his hand back, running the soap absently down his arm. He can see the suds cooling and sticking to Dan’s tattoos, obscuring the colors and details.

Dan lets out the breath Jon is holding. “I’m so grateful that you could step in and take care of them while I was- The boss doesn’t care about the timing. He doesn’t-“ Dan’s mouth twists, angry and cold- “Emily is collateral damage for him.”

Jon frowns, running the bar of soap down his other arm, feeling it cool and coalesce on his skin. “Emily and Tanya are one of the best acts we have.”

Dan shakes his head. “The boss thinks we can find a replacement.”

“Tanya won’t work with anyone else.”

“_I _know that,” Dan sighs. He drops his arms into the water, washing the soap off. “And you know that. Did you know that the boss has never seen a show?”

Jon frowns. “He’s bankrolling a circus and he’s never seen a show?”

Dan takes a deep breath. “You have to understand, Jon, that I’ve been alone with all of this for a long time. Not even Alyssa knows all the details of the boss.”

Jon swallows. He reaches out, running his fingers gently over the image of Emily on Dan’s ribs, now lying flat on her back, her spine at an unnatural angle and her eyes looking up, unseeing, at tattoo-Tanya’s horrified expression. “You don’t have to do it alone, anymore.”

The sun is rising slowly over the trees, throwing Dan’s twisted face into stark relief. Dan swallows, and Jon can make out the bottom half of his new tattoo. A money bag, thick and bulging with bills, stretching across Dan’s skin, so carefully placed above the collar of his shirt as to be damning.

Jon tightens his fingers on Dan’s hip. “The money?”

Dan shakes his head quickly, his hand reaching down to twist with Jon’s. “In my wagon, safe and sound. I don’t think the boss knows anything about it.”

Jon breathes out in relief. “That’s good.”

“But,” Dan bites his lip, shaking his head in the rays of red and orange light, “I think he wants to sell us, Jon.”

Jon’s heart thuds against his chest. The Batty Brothers has been his sanctuary, it has offered him the time and space to figure himself - and his power - out, and he can’t imagine- “Sell us? To whom?”

Dan shakes his head. His voice is low. “I don’t know.”

“What if-?” Jon lets it hang there. He thinks about Tanya’s husband, marrying her in the name of scientific discovery. He thinks about the man after his own power, and the life he would have led if Emily and Tommy hadn’t poisoned him first. He thinks about his father, and what men like his father would do if Jon wasn’t their flesh and blood.

Dan shakes his head, sadly. “The boss has a whole list of tasks for me. I need you to watch over the troupe while I’m gone. Can you-?”

Jon nods, squeezing Dan’s hip, “of course, of course I will,” before letting go. He reaches for the soap, running it down his chest and over his ribs, stopping just at the surface of the water. Then he cups his hands, filling them with water and letting it run rivulets down Dan’s tattoos, rubbing long and slow to get all the dried soap off his body. 

Water pools in the hollows of Dan’s hips, running over the tattoo of Jon’s hands. Jon runs his thumb over them gently, again and again, trying to imagine-

“Jon?” Dan asks, his voice low and choked.

Jon swallows, lifting his head to look into Dan’s eyes, as bright and clear as the river. Jon swallows. “Dan.”

Dan drops his chin, shifting closer, closer, closer-

“Dan!” Pri’s voice calls through the woods. “Jon!”

Jon pulls back, seeing his own disappointment mirrored in a flash through Dan’s eyes, before they both turn to see Pri sliding down the bank. She’s wearing thin ballet shoes, coated in dirt and stuck through with twigs and leaves.

“Come quick,” she calls, motioning back towards camp. “Emily’s awake.”

***

Jon wakes with a start, his neck screaming where it’s lulling against the back of his chair. It takes him a moment to wade through the remnants of his dreams - scraps of buildings and broken windows and his father’s bleeding fist - but then he hears it.

Emily’s voice, croaked and scratchy, but undeniably hers.

“There you are.” Emily smiles, her lips pale and thinner than Jon remembers. Her fingers tap weakly on Jon’s ankles where they’re crossed on the bed next to her hip. “Hi sleepyhead.”

“That’s supposed to be my line.” Jon smiles ruefully, letting the legs of his chair thump to the floor as he shifts, sliding onto the side of her mattress.

“Should have said it then.” Emily flattens her hand by her hip, her arm shaking as she tries to sit up.

Jon leans forward, careful not to pull on her stitches or the wash of black and blue and purple spreading across most of her chest as he helps her. She feels thin under his hands, but he can feel her heartbeat, strong and steady against her thin gown. “My mistake, you’re right.”

“At least we’ve got that straight.” Emily laughs, the sound scratching into a cough.

Jon stretches to reach the glass of water on the side table. He holds it out gingerly. "Michael said you should minimize your talking and maximize your drinking."

"Michael doesn't know what's good for him." She rolls her eyes and wraps her fingers around his, pulling the glass closer.

"Maybe not," Jon shrugs. He holds the glass steady as she swallows shallowly around a few, small sips. "But he knows what's good for you."

“Maybe,” Em offers around a cough. Her fingers start to shake around her mug, and Jon pulls it into his own hand. Em leans back against her pillows. “How is everyone? Really?”

“They’re fine,” Jon promises. “They just want you to get better.”

“Don’t lie to me.” Em rolls her head and, even through her coughs, her piercing gaze is enough to wither any meager defenses he’d thought he’d had. “I have everyone else for that. Why do you think I asked for you?”

“Because of my sparkling company?” Jon tries to cover the painful twist of his heart as it somersaults and lands, bruised, on its most fragile edge. It’s not that he’d thought- Hoped, maybe, that she'd wanted to see him for him, but- “Tanya had a hole in the schedule. Pri had a tiger emergency and I was the only one free.”

Em shakes her head, reaching out for his hand. “I asked for you.”

Jon swallows. Half of what he’d hoped, then. “Oh.”

“So don’t let me down.” Em squeezes with what Jon assumes she thinks is force, but her fingers are thin and worn as they twitch slightly in his palm.

Jon squeezes back, with the same pressure. “They’ve been worried about you,” he admits, softly. “I don’t think Tanya’s slept since you fell, Michael either. Lovett’s been obsessing over a song about penicillin and Pri hasn’t practiced with the elephants for days. They’re- them, but, not the same without you.”

Emily blinks rapidly, turning her head away from him. "They might have had to be. If I'd fallen just a little earlier, from just a foot higher. If Michael wasn't a literally pre-ordained doctor, if-"

"If you weren't a trapeze artist?" Jon interrupts, raising a pointed eyebrow, drumming his fingers by her hip. "You wouldn't be who you are either."

Emily swallows loudly, her shoulders trembling. "The circus is a part of me."

"Yeah," Jon smiles softly. "I'm starting to get how that feels."

Emily turns her head, smiling at him as she slips her hand over his on the sheets. Her palm is wet and clammy, her fingers hot to the touch. "Tommy tells me you've been-" She pauses to cough, her lungs sounding wet and loose- "great in the ring."

Jon flushes. "It's felt good to be out there. They like me."

Emily smiles, her eyes sliding closed then forced open again. "You belong out there. I wish I could see it."

"You will," Jon says, pushing his power into his words even though he knows it’s useless against her. "Soon enough."

Emily nods, her smile slipping down at the edges as she repeats, "soon."

Jon frowns. "Em, are you okay?"

Emily forces herself to sit up straighter, her eyes blinking around their glassiness. "I'm fine."

"You're really not." Jon leans forward, resting the back of his hand on her forehead. Her skin is goosebumped and damp with sweat. "How long have you been feeling like this?"

Emily blinks at him. "Who are you?" She asks, shying away from him, pulling her shoulders inwards and away from his touch. "What are you doing here?"

Jon frowns. "Emily?"

"How do you know my name?"

"I-" Jon frowns, holding his palms up and out. "I'm Jon. I work with you, remember?"

"Work with me?" Emily scoffs. "Proper ladies don't work.”

Jon’s heart beats rapidly with the beginnings of panic. “Emily?” 

Emily frowns. “Unless you mean at the hospital? I do deliver poinsettias a couple times a year with my mother. She's the president of the club, you know."

"Ahh." Jon lowers his hands slowly, glancing around automatically at the knick-knacks lining Emily's wagon. "You work for the Batty Brothers circus. You're a trapeze artist and you're brilliant at it."

Emily glances around, drawing her knees up to her chest and crying out. "No, no, no," she shakes her head, tearing at the hem of her nightgown, lifting it up. Jon glances away from the long stretches of her thighs and the softness of her stomach. Emily touches the edges of her full-chest bruise, watching her skin shift from purple to blue to the palest pink. "What did you do to me?"

"You fell," Jon tells her. "From twenty-five feet. You only survived by a miracle and Michael's genius."

Emily shivers, letting her nightgown drop around her hips and curling her arms around herself. "I don't know a Michael."

"You do," Jon insists softly. "He's- you're in love with him. He's your partner."

Emily shakes her head, her hair falling around her temples. Jon can see the sweat on her forehead and down her neck. "I'm married to Stephen Hawkins. I was promised to him when I was fourteen."

"I don't-" Jon shakes his head. "I don't know who that is."

Emily scoots up the bed, her entire body shivering. "You kidnapped me. You took me from my bed and you- How far are we from Cleveland? What do you want to do with me?"

Despite himself, Jon laughs. "You kidnapped _me_."

"You're mad." Emily narrows her eyes on him, pulling her legs away from his hands and raising her voice as loud as she can. "Help! Help! Someone, please, help me!"

The stairs creak and thump and Jon turns to see Michael and Tommy in the doorway.

"What happened?" Tommy asks, glaring daggers at Jon as she steps forward. "What did you do?"

Jon shakes his head. "I didn't do _anything_. She doesn't know where she is."

"He kidnapped me," Emily cries, shaking her head wildly. The sweat is thicker on her forehead and her eyes are thin and glassy. "He took me from my bed and he wants something from me."

Tommy frowns, glancing at Jon.

Jon shrugs and offers, helplessly. "She thinks she's married to some man named Stephen Hawkins in Cleveland?"

Tommy's brow furrows and he squats next to the bed, holding his hand out. "You left him, Em. You were promised to him, but you got away."

Emily's eyes turn to him, wide and swampy. "Why would I do that?"

"Because you wanted to live," Tommy slides a little closer. "Because you wanted more than the boring, staid life you were given and you always get what you want. Because you saw our show and you climbed out your window that night and you've been bossing us around ever since. Because you forced yourself into our show and we hadn't realized how dull our lives were until you did. Because I love you."

Emily shakes her head, her eyes tearing up and her body goosebumping. "I don't know who I am."

Michael slides silently to her other side. "It's okay, we do. I'm Michael, and I'm a doctor. I'd really like to check your vitals, if you'd let me?"

Emily watches him, slowly, before finally unfurling. Tommy leans forward, pulling her blankets back around her legs as Michael reaches carefully for her wrist to check her pulse.

Jon slides backwards out of the wagon. No one notices him go.

***


	10. York to Philadelphia

**York, PA 1934**

“Can I help?”

Jon stops in the doorway. Michael’s workspace is a mess of vials and herbs and intricately-connected glass vials. Michael’s holding two at odd angles, and he nods in Jon’s direction. “Come take this one?”

Jon nods, stepping forward and taking the beaker from Michael’s left hand, holding it at the same, precise angle. “This doesn’t look like medically-approved science.”

“It’s a certain kind of medicine,” Michael sighs, shaking out the last tube into a clear, bleached beaker. He holds it up, swirling it for a moment, then hands it over. “Try this.”

Jon frowns. “I don’t-“

“Just try it.”

Jon reaches for it carefully and tips it back, tasting just a drop on his lips. He laughs. “Moonshine?”

Michael nods. “The poor man’s medicine.”

Jon tips back the beaker and takes a long couple of sips. “It’s good. Did you add something?”

“Lavender.” Michael frowns, reaching for the beaker. “Does it need more? It tastes-“

“Bitter?” Jon offers. “Yeah, a little.”

Michael nods. “We can do that. Lavender grows like wildfire in this valley. Lavender’s the _only _thing that grows in this valley.”

Jon swallows, letting his voice drop low, like, if he doesn’t ask loud enough, she’ll be fine and healthy in some other universe. “How is she?”

“She’s dying.” Michael rips lavender off its stalks, dropping it into the vial Jon is holding. “She’s dying and without access to penicillin there’s absolutely nothing I can do to stop in.”

Jon’s hand shakes and he holds his own elbow with his free hand to steady it. “I don’t believe that.”

Michael steps back, too vast and too jerky and the glass vial he’s holding smashes to the floor with the tinkle of broken glass and the splash of liquid. “Fuck,” he swears, bending to his knee in the middle of the mess. He reaches for the largest piece with his bare hand.

Jon sets his own vial down carefully, then grabs a small bucket and squats down next to him. He holds out the bucket. “Michael-”

“I haven’t lost a patient since-“ Michael looks up at Jon, his eyes rimmed red around the purple and blues of his exhaustion. He drops the largest piece of glass into the bucket and reaches for another. When he speaks, his voice is as fragile as the glass shattered around his knees. “I haven’t lost a patient since Sam.”

Jon reaches for a piece of glass near his foot and drops it into the bucket. “Who was Sam?”

“Sam was-“ Michael a piece of glass in his palm. “Sam didn’t have a violent bone in his body. He would have done the world so much good, if he’d- But, he was always too good to the world for his _own_ good. He walked to his draft office the day he turned 18. Used to say it wasn’t fair to sit at home, waiting for his number to come up when boys were dying over there every day.”

Jon nods. He reaches carefully for another piece of glass, not even grimacing when he misses the angle and it cuts his skin. His father paid Jon’s way off the draft list. American enterprise was doing more for the war from home, he used to say, over and over again. Jon had believed him for so long. “Sam sounds awfully brave.”

Michael snorts. “Brave and stupid. He was the first one to volunteer for the front lines, every damn time. Even after- even after we started- He used to say he was a lucky son of a bitch, and it was his duty to ride the wave until it ran out. And it did. It always does.”

“What happened?”

“He was shot in the trenches.” Michael shivers, his eyes far away and hooded. “I got to him in time. I saved him. I got the bullet out, I got it dressed and cleaned. Except nothing was clean in the trenches. He woke me up late that night, feverish and delusional. No matter what I did, even with the full force of the new power I had no idea how to control, it wasn’t enough. He was gone before the sun had risen.”

Jon swallows. “Feverish and delusional?”

“Sepsis.” Michael nods. “He hadn’t stood a chance. Even I couldn’t cure him with nothing but earth and water at my disposal.”

“And now?”

“And now we have a fucking cure. A fucking commercial cure, but we can’t get it and I can’t make it without the ingredients. It’s too expensive and it’s too rationed.” Michael closes his palm around the shard of glass. “After Sam, I thought I couldn’t do this. How could I save other people when I couldn’t save my own heart?”

Jon scoffs. “Being a doctor is in your bones.”

“I’m still not so sure.” Michael shakes his head. “But, a few weeks later, there was a young boy, younger even than Sam or I. He was left for dead, quarantined, in a small down in France. I stayed behind, nursed him back to health with a medicine I created from scratch. Once I gained control over my power, I couldn’t go back. But I promised myself I wouldn’t lose someone again. Especially not someone I care for.”

Michael cuts himself off. His throat is working heavily over his breaths and he opens his palm to show his fingers dotted with blood.

He looks up at Jon, his eyes hollow and red. “What’s the point of this power if I can’t save the people I love?”

Jon reaches for Michael’s wrist, pulling him up gently. His knee is bleeding through his linen pants and Jon pushes him onto one of the empty medical cots. “You did so much for her,” he murmurs as he slides between Michael’s knees and dabs at Michael’s hand with a cotton ball. “If you were any other doctor in the world, she’d already be dead.”

Michael shakes his head. His thighs are hot around Jon’s hips and he barely flinches when Jon leans over him with the tweezers. “What if it’s not enough?”

“I don’t know,” Jon whispers, honestly. “But I’m not ready to give up on her just yet.”

“Penicillin-“

“I have an idea about that,” Jon promises. He digs at a particularly deep piece of glass, and Michael just bites his lip around a groan. “But, first, let me take care of you for a change, hmm?”

Michael nods, slowly, and leans into Jon’s chest.

***

"No." Pri shakes her head, her hand moving the brush aggressively across the tiger's back. "Absolutely not."

Michael steps back from the tiger's yellow eyes. His knee bandage is bulky under his pants and his hand is tied messily together with Jon’s handiwork. He mutters to Jon, “I told you this was a terrible idea."

Jon waves him quiet and pointedly does not look at the tiger’s teeth as he steps forward to scratch between her ears. "We wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."

Pri rounds on him, her hands spread and still along the tiger's side. "You know what happened the last time I was in Philadelphia? I burned my husband's house down and ruined my family's lives."

Jon frowns. "You don't know that."

Pri scoffs, her eyes blinking rapidly. "I burned it all down and then I ran. I'm- I'm not a good person, Jon, but I made peace with that a long time ago. Don't make me go back there."

Jon pushes all of his power uselessly into his hand and slides it over, covering Pri's. The tiger's fur is soft between her fingers. She doesn't pull away. "If there was any other way-"

Michael swallows and, his eyes flicking towards the tiger's face nervously, steps towards them. "Emily will die if we don't get this medicine."

Pri closes her eyes. There's tears at the corners and Jon wants to wipe them away, but he keeps his hand over hers, rubbing softly with his thumb. "There's really no other way?"

Michael shakes his head. "No."

"Okay." Pri nods, pulling away and dropping the brush aside. She raises her hand to start undoing her messy braid. "We leave tonight.

***

“We’re here.”

Jon lifts his head from where he’d been pretending to sleep. Outside the window, the city of Philadelphia is waking up with the sun, bakers and newspaper men and factory workers rushing sleepily down sidewalks. Jon flinches at the clang and clatter and turns the other way, across the aisle, to where Pri is yawning and stretching against Elijah’s side. Her voice is too low for Jon to hear, the heat on her skin and the smile on her face so soft it grates against the turmoil in Jon’s mind as harshly as the clanging. He rolls his neck, staring straight ahead, at the patch-worked seat in front of him.

Jon’s so tired that his eyes are itchy and his throat is scratchy, but he hadn’t been able to sleep. Not before Pri had succumbed to her own exhaustion and had fallen into a restless sleep, lulled by the bumpy road and the strength of Elijah’s shoulder. Definitely not after, when an uncomfortable silence fell over him and Elijah, fizzling with _are you a good man, Jon?_ and muffled with everything Jon still hasn’t said and everything he wants.

The bus screeches to a stop and Jon feels a soft, fiery-hot hand on his shoulder. “This is our stop. Ready?”

Jon looks up at her. Her braid is ruffled with sleep, but her hair is clean and shiny. She’s wearing her best linen dress, patched in only a few places and only a little loose on her frame. She looks young, the fire skimming just under her skin lending her a flushed, naive look. Looks have never been so deceiving.

Jon nods. “Ready if you are.”

She snorts and steps over Elijah’s knees, the hem of her skirt riding up until Elijah catches it. “Ready isn’t quite the word I’d use. Can you ever be ready to return to the city you destroyed?”

Elijah snorts, standing after her and resting his hand on the small of her back. “That’s a bit of ego, don’t you think? It was one building.”

Pri’s back shakes and she lifts her arm to hide her laughter in her wrist. Jon had, selfishly, been excited about this trip with Pri, about, maybe, spending some alone time with her. When he’d reached their meeting place to find her waiting anxiously next to Elijah, Jon had considered, for just a moment, bowing out. That was the old Jon, though, and watching them together now, he realizes how selfish he used to be. Any jealousy Jon has, about Pri’s place at Elijah’s side or visa versa, is Jon’s weakness and Jon’s alone.

“That’s true,” Pri leans into Elijah’s hand, her voice still shaking a little. “I should only feel one building’s worth of guilt.”

“That’s my girl,” Elijah grins, pushing her forward. “Coffee while we wait for visiting hours to start?”

Pri nods, turning to include Jon in her smile. “Yeah, I know a place.”

***

The hospital is loud and dirty and there’s a line thirty-people deep at the check-in counter. Jon’s fingers twitch in front of him as he takes an unconscious step towards Pri and away from the waiting room, overcrowded with coughing patients sitting two to a chair and standing against the walls. Suddenly, Michael’s medical tents in the middle of muddy fields are looking clean and sanitary.

“Are you sure this is going to work?” Elijah asks, wrapping his arms around his chest and talking low and earnest, out of the side of his mouth.

“No,” Pri huffs, taking a small step forward as the line moves. “I told you this was a terrible idea.”

Elijah flinches towards her as the man behind them coughs into a handkerchief. “Couldn’t we have come when it was a little less crowded then?”

“No.” Pri rolls her eyes. “I chose the busiest time on purpose. We need the cover if we’re going to steal antibiotics and get out again, undetected.”

The line shifts forward and Jon counts the people between them and the front desk. Five and counting. “At least we fit in.”

Pri looks at Elijah’s mud-encrusted jeans and work shirt, before eyeing Jon up and down. Jon shivers, wishing he had thrown on anything but the pants Tommy had given him when Jon first arrived, too tight at the waist and too wide around his thighs. The line pushes forward and Jon steps with it, pulling at the wrinkled cloth around the tops of his thighs as he does so. Three and counting.

"It's not the waiting room that matters," Pri shrugs, turning her eyes back to the front desk. "It's the quality of the doctors that saves lives."

"And the doctors here are-?" Elijah asks, as a distraught woman snatches her intake forms and a pen and turns on her heel. Two and counting.

"Oh, they're terrible," Pri finishes for him. "They were the last of a dozen hospitals to turn away my father's first-rate medical degree. They were desperate enough to almost give him a chance."

Jon frowns as the line moves forward. One more. "Then why are we here?"

"Even the worst hospitals store antibiotics," Pri shrugs, "and they tend to keep much worse track of them."

The boy in front of them coughs into his handkerchief and, when he pulls it back, there's blood on the cloth. Jon shivers. "This is a terrible idea."

"Now you're catching on." Pri pats his arm. The boy steps out of the way, led by his mother's tight grip, and Pri steps up to the desk, pasting on her brightest smile, the one she reserves for the most handsy of her adoring fans, the ones who wait for her behind the Big Top as if they've utterly forgotten how dangerous fire can be. "Good morning, ma'am."

The woman behind the desk gazes up at them, her eyes lidded and glazed. "What are you here for?"

"It's ever so silly, and I'm sorry to interrupt you on such a busy day. But, you see, my idiot husband here was fixing our front door," she leans forward conspiratorially. "I cannot t_ell_ you how many times I've told him to hire a handyman, but, you know men."

The woman nods dully, already reaching for a green in-take form.

"Anyway, he hit a nail through his hand-" She looks sideways at Jon pointedly and he quickly puts his hand behind his back- "I'm taking off a shift to be here, so, if there was anything you could do to make this go quicker-"

"Fill this out." The woman hands over the form. "Sign front and back, and take it to the second floor."

Pri takes it, batting her eyelashes gratefully. "Oh, thank you so much, I can't tell you how much we appreciate-"

"Next," the woman calls, already looking behind them.

Elijah pushes at Pri's elbow, leading them both out of the line and towards the stairs, muttering "well that didn't work" under his breath.

Pri takes Jon's elbow, leading him up the first stair as if he really does have a wound that's making him woozy. "There's not a woman in this place who isn't missing a shift due to her husband's stupidity. That woman will have already forgotten us."

Jon steps over a child sleeping, curled on the stairs. He glances down at his very in-tact hand. "She might remember us when she realizes that I don't actually have a nail in the back of my hand."

"Or," Elijah narrows his eyes at Pri's fingers still curled on Jon's elbow, "when she realizes that Jon's not actually your husband."

Jon's heart thuds and he tries to pull his elbow out of Pri's grip, but she tightens her fingers.

"Don't worry, we're not going to be here that long." Pri steps onto the second floor landing and nudges Jon's hand behind him again. She steps up to the almost-as-crowded second floor intake desk and hands over their forms.

The woman looks at the paper, bored, and nods to her left. "Waiting room is at the end of the hall. We'll call your husband's name when we're ready for him."

Pri nods, taking her form back and clutching it between her fingers. "He really is in a lot of pain."

"End of the hall," the woman repeats, already not looking at them.

Pri pulls at Jon's elbow, dragging him down the hallway. He falls into step behind her, and doesn't question when, instead of going straight, she takes the first left, then a right, then another left, her footsteps slowing as she starts peering in windows and trying door knobs. 

"One of these rooms- My father used to tell stories, the head surgeon has a bit of an addiction to young nurses and he'd leave one of the OR’s unlocked-" She tries a knob and it gives in. She falls forward a little, giggling with adrenaline. "Men are so predictable. Come on, hurry."

Jon holds the door open for Elijah, glancing both ways down the empty hallway before letting it close behind them both. It's an OR prep room, mostly empty except for a cot in the center and the cupboards lining the walls. Pri steps towards the closest cupboard, pulling the doors open.

Elijah steps towards the second set. "What are we looking for?"

"A glass bottle of small white pills about," she holds up her fingers, "this big."

Jon nods, stepping towards the third cupboard. It's full of needles and gauze. He steps to the next one, frowning at the rows and rows of blue bottles filled with a clear liquid. He's stepping to the next one when he hears the door creak open.

"Oh, apologies, I didn't know anyone was using this-" Jon turns in time to see an older man, his shoulders hunched and the dark skin at the edges of his eyes wrinkled and narrowing. "You don't work here. Who are you?"

Jon watches as he stops, his mouth still open around the ‘u.’ The man’s face pales, the skin around his mouth going three shades lighter and his pupils widening to fill his eyes. Jon turns, expecting to see a ghost or a man with a surgical knife, but all he sees is Pri, her face a matching shade of pale and her eyes a matching wide brown.

When she speaks, choked and low, she has the same lines around the corners of her mouth. “Dad?”

***

“I always secretly believed that you survived," Pri's father says, for the fifth time in about as many minutes. Not that Jon can blame him; Jon can only imagine what his own parents have been thinking about him and the lies they must be spreading so that their social circle won't guess the truth. Or, not so much the _truth, _but that people might think that they couldn't keep track of their eldest son. They’d never be able to guess the actual truth.

Jon's pretty sure that his parents are weaving lies about the Cayman Islands. Which sounds nice, in an abstract kind of way. Nicer, at least, than everyone thinking that he’s been dead all this time.

"But," Pri’s father continues, shaking his head, "the _circus_?"

Pri ducks her head. Her skin is rippling in shades of red and orange. "It's where I belong."

He shakes his head, using the same tilt Pri uses with Jon a dozen times a week. "I understand why you couldn't come to us, but, a sign, a letter, anything so that your mother could stop crying at night?"

Pri shivers, wrapping her arms around her chest. "I'm dangerous, Papa. I had already destroyed my life, I couldn't bear it if I destroyed yours too."

Jon's hand twitches, wanting to reach out for her. He can see Elijah's do the same, clutching his elbow to his side to keep himself still. 

Pri's dad shakes his head slowly. "So what Singh said was true?"

Jon shivers, remembering back to their conversation by the railroad tracks. The way Pri had averted her eyes, the way her voice had dropped, lower and heavier than Jon has ever heard it. The way she had choked over the story, the fire that had saved her and destroyed her husband and, possibly, the family Pri had left behind. The way she’d never said his name, not once, even as she talked about the life he’d promised her and never provided.

Pri's eyes flash and her hands flex on her ribs. Her fingers are flickering shades of blue and she pulls them into her fists. "He survived?"

"The firefighters got to him just in time," her father nods. His thinning hairline is damp with sweat as he raises his hand to motion across the left side of his head. "Has half a face of scars to prove it."

Pri shivers even though the room's temperature is steadily rising. "I don't know how he could have," she says in awe, to herself more than to any of them.

"A miracle," her father shrugs.

Pri snorts, a quick burst of shaky laughter bubbling out of her mouth. "He wasn't a miracle, Papa. He was- He _is_ not a good man."

His face hardens. "Don't say that, Priyanka. He paid for your funeral, he got me this job, he still checks on us when he's in town."

Pri straightens, dropping her arms back and squeezing the edge of the counter with her burning hands. "He still comes by?"

Elijah reaches over to stamp out a stray flame with his bare fingers.

Her father nods, his eyes flicking down to Elijah's hand. "He asks about you, every time."

Pri shakes her head. "What do you tell him?"

"The truth," he shrugs. "That I haven't seen you since your wedding day."

Pri bites her lip. "But?"

"But," her father takes a deep breath, "he says things about you. Awful, ungodly things. Things that-" He looks down at her hand- “I’ve always worried were true.”

Pri blinks, her lashes wet as she looks up at him.

He pulls back the collar of his scrubs. "You gave me this scar. You were just a few months old and you were hungry and I wasn't your mother. You- Something came out of your hands-"

Pri shivers, her body flickering, and she holds out her palm. Slowly, flames lick down her shoulders, past the singed edges of her sleeves, and coalesce in her habd. The fire is small but powerful, a hot blue center surrounded by red and orange flames, sitting in the palm of her hand like it was always meant to be there. Pri lets the flames dance, rising into the sky before settling back between her fingers with a dangerous crackle.

She looks as strong as she does in the ring, like facing her father is the same as facing a dozen tigers. Jon’s heart flips as the flames jump from Pri’s hand to his own chest, spreading heat and power from his heart outwards until he’s sweating in his linen shirt. Jon wants so much. He wants to step forward, pull her into him, let her warmth spread all the way to the tips of his fingers and toes, let her find some sort of rest in whatever he has to offer her. He wants to watch her even more than anything, though, to revel in the strength of her spirit that far outpaces the strength of the fire in her veins.

Elijah catches Jon’s eyes, the same spike of pride and warmth in his gaze that Jon feels in his own. It bowls him over, and Jon has to rest his weight on the counter behind him before he sinks to the ground with the force of Elijah’s attention.

Elijah flushes and turns away, back to where Pri’s dad is staring at her palm. His eyes are so wide, the skin around them so pale, that Jon can see the origins of Pri’s fire dancing in his pupils. “It’s true.”

“I was forged in fire,” Pri nods. She flexes her fingers, letting the fire dance between them. “I’ve always been stronger than you gave me credit for.”

“Priyanka-“

Pri shakes her head, closing her hand around the flames, extinguishing them with a hiss. “Do you want me to come home, now?”

He closes his eyes and, when he opens them again, his pupils are dark and cold, nothing but ash the fire has left behind. “Your mother’s heart has been so weak since your sister got sick, you know how this would destroy her.”

“I know.” Pri looks away, her own eyes squeezed closed. When she opens them, though, they’re bursting with fire. “I couldn’t come home, because I already am home. I found acceptance and purpose.”

Her father’s mouth twists again. “With the _circus_?”

“The circus is where I belong,” Pri shrugs, glancing at Elijah, and then at Jon, her eyes warm and steady. “I’m sorry if that isn’t the life you wanted for me, Papa, but it is the life I deserve. I’m with people who love me, with a roof over my head and food on the table and a warm bed at night. I don’t need anything more.”

“I don’t know if you’ll believe me,” her father swallows, “but I am sincerely sorry that I couldn’t give you that.”

“I can provide for myself,” Pri shrugs, no accusation in her voice. “But, there is one thing you can do for me.”

He opens his palms towards her. “If it’s in my power, anything.”

“My partner is sick. Very sick.” Pri’s eyes flick over the cupboards. “She needs antibiotics, or she won’t survive another day.”

His eyes close, momentarily, but then his face hardens and he steps towards the last cupboard. He pulls open the doors and reaches in for two small glass bottles. He holds them out. “Twice a day for ten days. Don’t stop even if she’s starting to feel better. I’ll tell the doctors I broke the bottles, no one will ever know.”

Pri lets her fingers linger over her father’s, a last, forgiving touch, and then she cradles them to her chest. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“It’s only a little of what I owe you,” he shakes his head. “I-“

There’s a crash in the hallway, the sound of doors slamming open and wheels whistling down the cold cement floor. Voices shout, loud and worried.

“You need to go. _Now_.” Pri’s father pulls his hand back quickly, already reaching for his own patient files and straightening his expression. “They can’t find you here with me. I can’t lose this job.”

Pri nods, but her feet are stuck, as if the floor has gone soft as quicksand under her. Elijah steps forward, his hands shaking as he touches the small of her back. “We have to go, Pri, for Emily, come on.”

But it’s too late. The door bangs open, clanging on its hinges as two doctors and three nurses rush in, a cot between them. The doctor frowns. “This room is supposed to be empty. Nurse Aribindi, explain yourself.”

He shakes his head. “I wasn’t- These people aren’t here for- Antibiotics, the bottle- Shattered-“

Jon steps forward, his power building in his veins, putting as much weight behind his words as he does in the ring. “Apologies for the mix up, Doctor-“

The doctor turns his glare on Jon. “Fox.”

“Doctor Fox,” Jon smiles, putting everything behind it. He can feel Dr. Fox’s skepticism running off him in waves, and the only way Jon has ever found of dealing with skeptics is to skirt as close to the truth as possible. Jon straightens his shoulders, slipping into the mask of the Jon he used to be, and holds out his hand. “I’m Jon Favreau, senior VP of Favreau Industries. I’m sure you’ve heard of us, best construction firm out of Boston.”

“Ah,” Doctor Fox’s face twists, embarrassment, confusion, and glamour chasing across his face and settling into his eyes. “I haven’t, but-“

“Well, if you haven’t yet, I’m sure you will soon. It’s probably only need to know, right now,” Jon shrugs apologetically.

The doctor’s face twists further, flushing with heat. “Oh, I’m sure they’ll tell me soon.”

“I’m sure they will,” Jon gives his most innocuous smile, letting his teeth shine through. “I wanted a more, shall we say, unofficial tour of the hospital. Gotta know what I’m getting into, you know?”

Doctor Fox’s eyes are fully glazed over now, glamour coating his irises in a cloudy film. “Of course, sir.”

Jon motions towards Pri’s dad. “The nurse here was just giving us a behind the scenes tour. It wasn’t his fault that I dropped the bottles of antibiotics, I’m so clumsy. I hope they won’t be too hard to replace?”

Doctor Fox shakes his head, looking at one of the nurses with him. “No trouble at all. Sarah, please mark down the inventory. No need for anyone else to have to know about this.”

Jon tilts his head gratefully. “I appreciate that immensely. You have a lovely hospital here, Dr. Fox, but, we should be leaving you to your patients. Thank you for your discretion in this matter.”

Doctor Fox tilts his head to meet Jon’s. “As long as you tell your superiors how flexible I can be, it’s all water under the bridge.”

“Of course.” Jon gives his most diplomatic grin, already motioning slightly with his head for Elijah and Pri and her father to slip out of the room ahead him. “I wish you luck with your surgery.”

“Thank you, Mr. Favreau. Have a wonderful day.”

Jon nods, ducking out of the room and letting the door slide closed behind him.

“That was-“ Pri’s father is waiting for him in the hallway, his eyes wide and his head shaking quickly on his neck. “What you did back there- That was incredible.”

“Not that incredible,” Jon grimaces, “unless you’re far from here before he gets out of surgery. I suggest you claim a stomach bug for the rest of the day, make yourself scarce. Your job should be safe and sound in the morning. He’ll be too embarrassed to report this.”

He nods. “I can’t thank you enough.”

Jon nods towards the vials in Pri’s hands. “You’ve already given us everything we need.”

He follows Jon’s eyes, swallowing hard. “Priyanka-“

She reaches out, wrapping her arms around him tightly for a long moment, then steps back. “You need to go, now. I-“ She swallows. “I’m glad I got to see you again, but, you can’t tell _anyone _that we were here. Ever, okay?”

He nods quickly. “I promise.”

Down the connecting hallway, they hear footsteps.

Pri takes a step back, her shoulder brushing with Jon’s. Her voice is low but study. “Goodbye, Papa.”

“Goodbye Priyanka,” he swallows. “I’m glad I got to see you, one more time, so happy and grown.”

She smiles softly, “I really am, Papa, you don’t need to worry about me anymore.”

He nods, his eyes filling with tears. 

Down the hallway, the footsteps grow louder. Jon feels a hand on his elbow, Elijah’s long, calloused fingers and gentle touch, his voice insistent in Jon’s ear. “We have to _go_.”

They turn and run.

***

“It was really stupid, what you did back there.” Elijah’s voice is soft in the dark of the bus, his body anything but as he slides into the seat next to Jon, the length of him pressing against Jon from knee to thigh to elbow.

Jon looks away from the Pennsylvania countryside rushing past the window, the cookie cutter houses of Philadelphia’s suburbs giving way to trees and ramshackle barns. Jon has been holding his breath since they left Pri’s father outside that OR room, held it as he glamoured their way out of the hospital, held it as they jogged all the way to the bus station and kept holding it as he glamoured their way onto the first bus back to York. Only now, as Pri is sleeping curled in the seat across from them, the vials of antibiotics cushioned protectively in her bag and the stench and hustle of Philly fading into the distance, does Jon let himself take a deep, powerful breath.

Elijah’s face is long in profile, and Jon traces the look of him. The slope of his forehead, the point of his nose, the space between his lips that Jon has spent most of a lifetime dreaming about. Jon takes another deep breath and doesn’t force himself to look away. “We got the medicine, there’s nothing stupid about that.”

Elijah’s lips thin. “But at what cost? A room full of doctors and nurses know your name, Jon.”

Jon nods. He still doesn’t look away. “I know.”

“Your glamour will last, what? An hour, two?”

“A day, at most.”

“A day,” Elijah repeats, “and then they’ll track down your father. He’ll know you’re still alive. He’ll-”

“He won’t stop looking until he’s found me,” Jon takes another deep breath, “I know. It was a risk worth taking. I can face my father’s wrath. Pri’s family can’t survive without her father’s paycheck.”

Elijah shakes his head, his eyes flashing in the headlights of passing cars as he turns to look at Jon. “I’ve been awfully hard on you.”

“You have.” Jon swallows, flushing as Elijah’s eyes follow the movement. “But I deserved everything you threw at me. You were right, Elijah.”

Elijah’s thigh tightens against Jon’s and his hands fold in his lap. “About what?”

“I’m not a man worth saving,” Jon admits, softly. “I let myself get swept up by greed and power and my father’s expectations. I thought- I thought making him proud was worth fighting for.”

Elijah swallows and it’s Jon’s turn to watch his neck move smoothly with the motion. “I wasn’t being fair to you. I lost my family when I was too young to know any different. Family is important.”

“It is,” Jon agrees. “And you’ve built yourself a family worth fighting for.”

“Jon-“

“My father wasn’t worth fighting for,” Jon interrupts, feeling the words rise in this throat and tumble out like, if they don’t, Jon might combust with the possibility of what might be. “I’m sorry you’ve had to teach me that lesson so many times, but I get it, now. You’re worth fighting for, Elijah. I may not be a man worth saving, yet, but I will spend the rest of my life trying to become that man.”

Elijah shakes his head, a deep breath rushing out of him. “You’re incredible, Jon, you know that?”

Jon ducks his head, glad that it’s too dark for Elijah to see the heat on his cheeks. “I’m really not.”

“You are,” Elijah pushes. “You’ve fought against everything you were born into and everything you were taught to become one of the gentlest, most wonderful men I’ve ever met. What you did today- Sacrificing yourself for a family Pri left so long ago- You’re incredible.”

Jon’s throat feels thick and wet. “Elijah-“

Elijah opens his palm on his thigh, his fingers flexing upwards. “I’m so proud of you, Jon.”

Jon blinks against the wetness, spreading his hand over Elijah’s. Elijah’s palm is clammy, the heat of the day and the electricity between them pooling in his skin, but his fingers are sure and strong as they twist around Jon’s.

Jon lets out a breath he’s been holding for decades. “I’ve missed you so much, Elijah, and I’ve never, not for a moment, stopped wanting you.”

Elijah squeezes his hand tightly. “You too, Jon, fuck, you too.”

Jon nods, the weight of the day, of the past few months, the weight of pulling himself out of the hole he’s been digging himself into since he was a little boy, falling around his shoulders. He tips sideways, his cheek resting against Elijah’s shoulder. He waits for Elijah to push him away, to tell him that this has all been one big cosmic joke and that Jon has years of penance left, but Elijah just tightens his fingers around Jon’s as he rests his own cheek on Jon’s head.

Jon lets his breathing even out, fitting in along Elijah’s and the bump of the bus as it chugs, slowly, down the road towards home.

***


	11. From Philadelphia to Long Island

"No, no," Lovett stands half out of his seat, his cards clutched closed to his chest, "that's cheating."

Elijah tugs at the hem of Lovett's shirt. "Sit down."

"It _is_." Lovett frowns down at him. "No powers in poker, we all agreed."

Pri grins, leaning across the table, her glass dangling from her fingers. "You're just salty we’re beating you."

"I am not," Lovett protests. "I'm thinking about the little guy. Jon’s power is useless, so this wouldn’t be fair to him, would it?"

Jon straightens in his place next to Tommy, folding his cards carefully in front of him. "I'm doing fine, thank you."

"Just as an example," Lovett shrugs. "Pri's and Elijah's powers aren't very helpful here either."

Elijah shrugs, reaching for his drink. His knee brushes Jon's under the table with the movement and he doesn’t pull away. "I'm not here to win."

"I am." Pri swirls her drink. "But I'm not having any trouble beating you handily, powers or not."

Lovett sighs, sliding back into his seat with a huff. "I'm just trying to prepare you all for Atlantic City. We only have a couple more days-"

"And then an entire night off," Tommy finishes for him. "We know. Some of us will be happier to eat and drink our way through the city, though, then to try and make a little pocket change."

"It's not about the money." Lovett sighs in exasperation. "It's about the thrill of the fight."

Tommy shrugs. "I'm pretty happy fighting a lobster tail and a plate of muscles, thank you.”

"Me too." Pri tips her drink towards Tommy's.

Jon taps the corner of his cards against the table. "I'm with Lovett. When in Atlantic City, right?"

Lovett turns a smile so bright on him - his lips curling back and his eyes lighting up - that Jon feels it, thick and warm in the center of his chest. “You and me, then. Are you raising or folding?”

Jon smiles back, feeling the warmth of it shimmer down his arms, fitting alongside the low thrum of his power, lying dormant under his skin. He glances down at his cards. Two high clubs, the nine of spades and-

“He’d better be folding,” Emily says from the doorway, “or he’s a fool.”

Jon turns the same smile on her, his face flushing as he takes her in. Her linen sheath dress is hanging loosely off her thin frame, her skin is pale and just as loose, but her eyes are bright and _alive_. Jon holds up his cards. “I guess I’m a fool, then.”

Lovett drops his cards on the table, shaking his head, “and _he’s _the one who’s willing to be my partner,” as he steps towards her. His voice drops, softer and thicker with more feeling than Jon’s ever heard it, as he reaches out to pull her close to his chest. His arm is loose and careful not to hurt her, but she falls into him, her entire body melting into his chest. “Hi Em, long time no see.”

Emily chuckles wetly. Her arms rise to wrap around his back, her forearms bruised from where they’d been resting, unmoving, on her cot for much too long. “Hi, Lo. How much trouble have you been getting into without me?”

“Not enough,” Lovett whispers into her hair. “Not nearly enough. Fuck, Em, you scared us.”

Emily makes a choked sound and Tanya steps forward, squeezing the back of both their necks. “Let’s sit, yeah? Michael said it’ll take a couple days to get your feet back under you.”

Tommy pushes back from the table, crossing and pulling Emily up like she’s as light as an armful of feathers. She laughs, kicking her legs over his arm. “I’m not that unsteady.”

Tommy shrugs. “You never let me do this, let me take a little advantage of you.”

Emily laughs as he slings her into the spot Pri and Dan make for her. “You can take as much advantage of me as you want, the moment Michael gives the okay.”

“A few days,” Michael orders sternly as he slings his legs over the bench next to Elijah. He looks more tired than Emily does, the bags under his eyes dark and thick. Jon doesn’t think he’s slept much, if at all, in the three days since they got back with the antibiotics and Michael had taken over round-the-clock care. Watching, waiting, hoping for something to happen, saying _I don’t know if this is going to work_ more with his eyes than with his words. “At least. You’re out of the woods but not-“

“Hear that?” Emily interrupts, reaching for Dan’s drink. Her fingers linger on Dan’s, her thumb rubbing against the back of his hand for a long, gentle moment, before she takes his glass. “I’m through the woods. Top me off.”

Elijah drops his hand to Michael’s knee, squeezing tightly. Michael sighs deeply. “As long as Tommy’s willing to carry you back to bed, later.”

“Would be my greatest pleasure,” Tommy grins, filling Emily’s glass and placing it squarely between her and Dan.

“Thank you,” Emily grins, crossing her legs wobbly. Pri reaches over to straighten Emily’s dress over her knee, her fingers lingering on the bare skin above Emily’s knee. “So, what are we playing?”

“Poker,” Lovett grins, reaching for his cards. “Practicing for Atlantic City.”

Emily grins, tapping her knuckles on the table. “Deal me in next hand.”

Michael opens his mouth to protest, but Lovett glares him into silence. “Of course. Where were we? Oh, right, Jon you were going to bet ill-advisedly.”

Jon sighs, folding his hands in front of him. “No, I’ll pass.”

“At least you’ll have powers when we get to Atlantic City,” Lovett shrugs, his eyes shining as he winks at Jon. “You’ll be of some use.”

“Oh,” Jon rolls his eyes, reaching for his drink, “thank you for your magnanimity.”

“Anytime.” Lovett grins. “Next. Dan?”

Jon takes a long sip of his drink, shaking his head and barely holding back his laughter. He feels the bench move and he looks over to see Tanya slide carefully into the seat next to him. She looks almost as tired as Michael does, but her skin is flushed with happiness as she reaches over, pressing her fingers to his wrist. “I haven’t been able to thank you since you got back.”

Jon flushes, shaking his head but pressing his wrist into her fingers. “It was nothing.”

“It wasn’t,” Tanya pushes. “Elijah told me about what you did in there. We were wrong about you.”

Jon smiles at her, “thank you,” and leans closer. “Are you any good at poker?”

Tanya tips her head back, laughing, high and light and tinkling through the tent and shimmying through Jon’s entire body. She presses her fingers tighter against his wrist. “Of course I am. Show me your cards.”

***

“Fold,” Jon sighs, sliding his cards together and laying them on the table in front of them for the third time in a row. He reaches for his drink and takes a long sip. It’s his third since dinner and the innumerable pitchers of cheap beer they’d all shared. It hadn’t been a nice place, not anything more, really, than an underground tavern barely repainted since the end of prohibition, but they’d had a table long enough for all ten of them and a menu full of fried, greasy food that should have been more than enough to sop up the beer. 

Jon’s pretty sure, though, that it’s not the beer nor the three strong mixed drinks since that’s making his eyes cross and his chest dance with something that feels an awful lot like tipsy but also a lot like anticipation and possibility. All through dinner, Jon had noted the way Pri’s ankle pressed into his from across the table, the way Emily’s fingers - so much stronger and more solid than they were a few days go - had twisted with his as she passed him platters of potatoes and onions, how Dan had rubbed the tattoo on his forearm over and over again. It had felt good. It had felt like the start of something.

_Home_, his mind provides. _Family_, his heart wants.

“Call,” Lovett nods, his eyes shooting daggers into Jon’s forehead like, maybe, his strength with numbers has somehow transformed into telepathy. Jon shivers at just the thought. Letting Tanya into his soul is more than enough for this and any lifetime.

Jon raises his palms apologetically, nodding towards his cards. A mix of suits that even Jon’s power can’t make into something worth the fifty dollar bet Lovett’s raised them to. Lovett sighs and slides another two dollars into the pot.

Lovett’s fingers are short and pale, and Jon flushes as he flashes back to the dreams he’s been having the last few nights. Hands - Lovett’s, short and talented; Tanya’s, long and thin and knowing; Alyssa’s, strong and sure; Pri’s, dark and light - on him, covering him, making him theirs, making everything Jon’s been feeling permanent and real and forever. Jon wants that. Jon, he’s been realizing, has never wanted anything in his life like he wants to belong here. Not his father’s respect. Not the money behind Favreau Industries. Not the power flowing through his veins so strongly now, waiting patiently for its turn and for a decent deal.

Lovett flips his cards over. “Royal flush, read them and weep gentleman.”

“Hey now,” the man at the head of the table, dressed in a top hat that has seen better days, frowns down at his cards. “You’re cheating. I don’t know how, but, you have to be.”

Lovett opens his palms, face up. “I would if I could, but I assure you, I have no cards up my sleeves.”

Jon’s power sizzles and warms, flowing into his chest and sliding in alongside his smile and his words. “He really would, if he knew how. How about another round, gentleman? We’re just getting started.”

Top hat’s face smoothes out, and he nods, “gin and tonic please,” as he gathers the cards to shuffle.

Jon nods, pushing back from the table. “I’ll get the round. Deal me out.”

Lovett looks up at him, his eyes warm and grateful as he grins. “Vodka soda.”

“Yeah,” Jon lets himself smile back, not with his power, but with everything _he _is, with the Jon who dreams about Lovett’s fingers and Lovett’s mouth and Lovett’s spectacular way with words. “I know.”

Lovett flushes, his shoulders softening as he taps the table. “Deal me in. Double or nothing as my partner’s out?”

Jon forces himself to turn, smiling as Lovett’s voice follows him, cajoling and tinged with laughter. Lovett’s been holding back, his own power simmering just under the surface, and Jon can’t wait to watch it in full force. This is what Jon’s been waiting for. It’s why, when after dinner they’d all gone their separate ways - Tanya, Emily, and Michael back to camp and Tommy, Pri, Elijah, and Dan to another bar with even better food and better drink - Jon had made good on his promise and followed Lovett into the gambling dens. Jon can be useful here but, more importantly, watching Lovett at his best is more intoxicating than any cocktail.

Jon leans over the edge of the bar, using his best power-backed smile to attract the bartender’s attention and order their drinks. He’s just turning his back to the bar, leaning his elbows on the counter to watch Lovett while he waits, when he feels a presence lean closer.

“Your partner is excellent,” the voice says. Jon turns, taking in the muddy tie and dusky pin-striped suit under world-weary eyes, narrow and smart.

Jon swallows. “He knows his way around a pack of cards, yeah.”

“Sure,” the man agrees, tilting his glass towards Lovett’s table, “among other things.”

Cold shivers down Jon’s spine. He leans on his power, feeling it thick in his throat. “I don’t know what you’re implying, but, can I buy a drink?”

The man snorts. He flattens his tie against his button-down shirt. It’s a little grey, like it’s been washed a few too many times at the public launders. “Sure, I’ll take it off his tab. It won’t go very far to neutralizing his debts, but a little is better than nothing.”

Jon swallows, his mind reeling even as his power slides into the corners of his smile. “You’ve met him before?”

The man nods, swirling his drink in his hand. The ice clangs against the sides of his glass. “In this very bar, in fact. It’s been a long time, but I don’t forget the face of men who owe me a thousand dollars.”

Jon chokes, raising his wrist and coughing into it to cover the motion. He pushes everything his power has into his words. “You must be mistaken. My friend here plays with integrity, I promise you.”

The man snorts. “Maybe he’s not such a good friend of yours.”

Jon shakes his head. “I know him, better than most anyone.”

“Not well enough.” The man tilts his glass towards Jon as the bartender comes back with a tray of drinks. “You’ll see. I’ll have my turn soon enough.”

Jon frowns deeply. “Well, we’ll see who’s right then.”

The man nods, his eyes flashing. “Have a good day.”

Jon takes the tray, his mind racing as he nearly trips back over to the table. He hands out the drinks, then leans down to whisper in Lovett’s ear as he places his vodka soda on the table. “There’s a man at the bar, seems to know you.”

Lovett frowns, “I don’t-“ as he turns around. Jon feels his body freeze against Jon’s chest. “Fuck.” He drops his cards down on the table. “Well this was fun, gentleman. I’m giving you this one, a gift on me. And now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s someplace I need to be that’s, ahh, not here.”

He pushes back from the table, gathering his winnings into his chest and shoving handfuls into Jon’s hands. Jon shoves them into his pockets, frowning. “Lovett-?”

“No time,” Lovett says, quickly. He leaves a pile of coins on the table as he stands, tripping a little over Jon’s feet. “Take what you can.”

Jon fills his pockets, then steps back. Out of the corner of his eye, Jon sees the man at the bar standing and taking a long step towards them.

Lovett holds out his hand for Jon’s. “Run.”

***

Jon’s chest is aching, his lungs are pounding against his ribs, and his pulse banging against his pressure points by the time they slow to a walk a few blocks from the casino. He struggles to breathe as he gasps out, “Lovett?”

Lovett sighs, his own breath coming in shallow pants as he slows his pace but still has to jog to keep up with Jon’s longer strides. “We might be safe now. Manchevo never liked to run. Easy prey, that was always his game.”

“Manchevo?” Jon asks. His lungs burn and he slows even more, so that Lovett can slow his pace to a walk.

Lovett sighs, the sound low and stuttered. “He used to be the baddest boss in Atlantic City. Owned all the casinos, all the underground speakeasies. Not a single bottle of booze got into the port without Manchevo’s approval.”

“Until?”

“Until prohibition ended,” Lovett shrugs.

“Prohibition ended eight months ago,” Jon frowns.

“Well,” Lovett shrugs, “maybe things weren’t so easy on him before that, either.”

Jon shakes his head, his lips twitching into a smile. Lovett’s fingers are warm and sweaty in his and Jon squeezes them. “And I’m sure you had something to say about that?”

Lovett shrugs. “I may have been a thorn around here, back in the day. Before Dan straightened me out.”

Jon laughs. “You stole from Manchevo?”

“No need to make it sound so mundane,” Lovett shrugs. “I had an in to Manchevo’s vault. I kinda thought he didn’t know who kept stealing from his personal stores, but-“

“Cat seems to be outta the bag,” Jon finishes for him.

“Yeah.” Lovett laughs a little. “In my defense, I spent it on bread and a not-at-all extravagant roof over my head.”

Jon nods, his eyes twinkling and his mouth twitching. “I believe you.”

Lovett shakes his head, “thank you-,” stopping when footsteps echo on the other side of the alley. Steel boots, worn by Atlantic City law enforcement, chasing their own tails down the sidewalk. Lovett pushes Jon into the shadows, stepping between his thighs to draw them both out of the glow of the streetlights.

Jon reaches for Lovett’s hips, pulling him closer. He can feel Lovett’s heartbeat through the layers of his clothes. He drops his chin, lowering his voice, “we’ve gotta stop meeting like this.”

“Jon-“ Lovett breathes.

Jon closes the distance between them. Lovett’s lips are as warm and soft as they were in New Orleans, his tongue sliding between Jon’s like it was always meant to be there. He tastes like vodka and sweat and fried chicken, his body warm from running and his chest heaving with adrenaline. He leans into Jon, his entire body sinking into Jon’s like, even unaffected by his power, Lovett couldn’t resist him another moment.

“Lovett,” Jon murmurs, pulling back just far enough to breathe.

Lovett reaches up, his fingers strong and calloused on Jon’s cheek. He laughs, his breath short and tight. “This is fucking ridiculous.” He steps back, holding out his hand for Jon’s. “Be patient, just a little bit longer.”

Jon nods, his chest beating wildly. “I can do that.”

Lovett’s eyes don’t leave Jon’s as he tugs on his hand. “Come on, we’ve gotta get back to camp.”

“Yeah,” Jon breathes, his cheeks burning with embarrassment and possibility and a deep, steady heartbeat that sounds like _home_. “Yeah, lead the way.”

***

“Jon?”

Jon’s hand slips, painting a swath of green across the layers of pink and white he’s already painted. “Fuck,” he swears, dropping his hand, his brush slipping against his forearm and his linen pants.

“You’re a disaster,” Alyssa laughs, reaching to take the brush from him. Her fingers are warm as they linger against his, sending a jolt of lightning up Jon’s arm that settles over his cheekbones. “Let me help.”

Jon sighs, stepping back. “I’ve never been the most artistic guy.”

Alyssa snorts, “I have no problem imagining that,” and steps back with him. She crosses her arms, careful to keep the paintbrush dangling a good few inches from her tunic. Her shoulder presses against his as she tilts her head to peer at the side of his wagon. “What is this supposed to be?”

Jon rubs at the spot of green paint on his forearm as he points. “It’s a forest scene. See all the trees, there?”

Alyssa squints her eyes and says, “sure,” dragging out the _u_.

“And that, down there, is going to be a river, but I haven’t started on the blue yet. And there-“ Jon points to the right side of his wagon, where the green from his pine trees is now bleeding into the pink and white stripes- “is the Big Top.”

Alyssa rights her head and raises an eyebrow. “Oh, those are supposed to be stripes?”

“It’s the oldest wagon in the troupe,” Jon defends himself. “I was working around splinters and things, so the lines might be a little, ahh, wobbly.”

Alyssa snorts. “Blaming the wagon is beneath you.”

Jon sighs deeply. Now that he’s standing back from it, looking at it from Alyssa’s perspective, it looks a lot less like the Alabama woods he’d been going for and an awful lot like an eight-year old’s rendering of Picasso. “Is it salvageable?”

“Not by you.” Alyssa waves the brush in front of her, getting droplets of green on the grass. “You got another one of these?”

Jon nods to the pile of paint and brushes and buckets he’d found at the back of his wagon. They’re all a little sticky and second-hand, left over from advertising banners and freak show signs, but after a thorough wash Jon’s managed to make them usable again. 

Alyssa hikes her skirt up so that she can squat next to the pile, her back rippling as she reaches for a bucket of blue paint and three different sizes of brushes. Jon doesn’t realize he’s staring until she glances over her shoulder, smirking at him as she straightens, slower than necessary. “You were using the wrong brush, first of all.”

Jon swallows, forcing himself not to look away from her. It’s been three days since he and Lovett returned back from Atlantic City, Jon’s breath short with possibility and his palm clammy from the effort not to reach out and take Lovett’s hand at every step. Jon had been absolutely certain that Lovett was feeling the same way and in his darkest moments since, Jon’s replayed a dozen memories to himself: the way Lovett’s lips had gone soft under his, the way Lovett’s hand had twitched on his thigh on the bus back to camp, the way Lovett’s gaze had shifted towards Jon every time he thought Jon wasn’t looking.

When they had gotten back to camp, though, Lovett had left him with nothing more than a short, awkward wave and a clipped “good night” as he’d climbed the stairs to Dan’s wagon. He’d left Jon standing in the center of the ring of wagons to watch as Dan ushered Lovett in with a knowing and gentle hand, wondering if he had made it all up. A figment of the alcohol and the adrenaline of cards and the bright lights and the force of Jon’s own desire.

This wouldn’t be the first time Jon had internalized enough of his own power to believe what he’d wanted to. He’d spent his entire life convincing himself that his father’s ruthlessness was business acumen and that his cruelty was Jon’s own fault. Jon’s been wanting a home since he was little and he’s been wanting _this _home for so many months now, he can’t be sure that his power hasn’t manufactured an illusion of it for him.

So, every time that Jon thinks about the taste of Lovett’s mouth, he remembers the way Tommy hasn’t met his eyes in three days. Every time that Jon remembers the warmth of Lovett’s palm, he reminds himself that Pri left the food tent the moment he entered the first morning and has been avoiding him ever since. And every time that Jon replays the lightning in Lovett’s eyes, he forces his mind to recount the number of times Emily has seen him coming and turned the other way.

Standing here, basking in Alyssa’s body heat and shivering at the warmth in her eyes, is the closest he’s been to another soul outside of the ring in three days. He knows he should turn away, step back, promise that he can do this without her so that he can maintain the flimsy wall he’s been patching and caulking. Jon’s never been as strong as he wants to be, though.

Jon steps towards her, his hand outstretched. “What brush should I be using?”

Alyssa catches his hand with her own, twisting his fingers around the brush and stepping up behind him. Her chest is pressed against his back so that her shorter arms can reach his. “And your motion is all off. Follow me.”

Jon doesn’t breathe as he lets her guide his hand. When he’d taken on this project as a way to fill all the time he hadn’t realized he’d been filling with Lovett and Pri and Tommy and Emily, it hadn’t felt like anything more than a filler and a distraction. With Alyssa’s fingers twisted between his and her chest flush against his back, though, Jon can’t help but think about how permanent a gesture it is. A way to turn the old supply wagon into _his_. A stamp of his own that will stay with the troupe, whether or not they ask him to.

He turns his head, his throat a little dry as he says, “thank you, ‘Lys. I know this can’t be your favorite way to spend the afternoon.”

Alyssa frowns at him, her brow furrowing and her eyes darkening under her lashes. “I kinda think that’s for me to decide.”

“I know.” Jon swallows. “But I know you don’t like me all that much.”

“Jon-“ Alyssa sighs, dropping his hand and stepping back.

“No, I know,” he says, quickly, dropping his hand and not caring that it adds blue paint to the green already on his pants. He turns to look at her with a small smile. “I bring fire and brimstone, I wouldn’t want me to be a permanent fixture either.”

“I like you.” Alyssa shakes her head. Her eyes are dark and intense, and she doesn’t look away. “Liking you has never been the fucking problem. Do you think it’s been easy to say no to you? To push you away when all I want to do is- I like you so fucking much, which is what’ll make it so much worse when- _if_\- I don’t know if I can survive that.”

Jon swallows against the hope bursting through his chest. “I’m not going to betray you, Alyssa.”

Alyssa takes a deep breath, her collarbone heaving under her loose tunic. “Not on purpose, anyway.”

“Never,” Jon promises.

“I believe you.” Alyssa smiles, small and shy, before looking down at the paint dripping down Jon’s leg. “You’re a disaster.”

Jon follows her gaze, feeling laughter bubbling in his chest for the first time in days. “I know. I need you.”

Alyssa snorts and steps back into place. “Oh, I know that, too.”

***

Jon stands back from his wagon, far enough so that he can see the entire side he and Alyssa worked on the day before. It’s still a little wonky, the trees swaying in an unillustrated wind and the blue of the river bleeding into everything around it, but Alyssa had painted decent illustrations of them all - Pri and Elijah swimming with an elephant in the river, Lovett in his clown costume in front of the tent, Jon next to Dan ushering guests inside - and it feels like _his_.

"It looks great."

Jon jumps at Emily's voice, turning to look at her. She's still a little too thin, her dress hanging loosely around her shoulders and hips, but her skin is rosey and her eyes are bright and alive.

Jon rubs the back of his neck, not quite able to meet her eyes without reaching out for her, begging her for proof that she's alive and healthy and _here_. "Alyssa did most of it."

"Oh, I know," Emily smirks. She takes a step forward, pointing to the little drawing of her and Tanya, swinging off a tree. "I don't really think my body can contort this way though."

Jon shrugs. "Talk to Alyssa."

Emily turns her chin, grinning at him over her shoulder. "I appreciate that she thinks I can though."

Jon shakes his head, but can't keep himself from smiling in the face of Emily's. "I can't win."

"Oh, you're about to." Emily reaches her hand out. "I was sent to get you."

Jon's eyes flick down to Emily's hand, her fingers long and pale and so much stronger than they were a week ago, and back up. "Sent by who?"

She wiggles her fingers. "If you come with me, you might find out."

Jon reluctantly puts his hand in hers, the warmth of her shooting through his arm up and his shoulder. "I don't trust you."

"That's a shame," she shrugs, "because I trust you."

"Well that was your first mistake," Jon tries to joke, as the warmth spreads through his body and he trips over a clod of dirt.

She catches him, her fingers tightening. When she speaks, it's with none of the good humor Jon's been reaching for. Her eyes are bright and intense. "You saved my life, Jon. I would trust you with it again, in a heartbeat."

Jon's heart hammers in his chest. "I don't know if I deserve that."

"You do." Emily shakes her head. "You deserve everything."

Jon shakes his head, his mind reeling-

"And if you come with me," she continues, her fingers tightening even harder in his, "you just might get it."

\- around the possibilities. She can't possibly be implying what his heart hopes she is. Except her gaze is bright and she isn't pulling away and Emily might be the most confusing person Jon has ever met, but she's never played him like this. Not on something that matters. Not on the rest of Jon's life, the warm, forgiving, home of a life Jon's just started letting himself want.

If she's not though- If this isn't going to happen. If he hopes and hopes and hopes so fucking much and it doesn't pan out- Jon's already mentally packing his bags. He'd liked Atlanta. It was warmer and brighter than Boston and a good thousand miles from his father. If he has to start over, he could do a lot worse than Atlanta.

"You're cute when you're like this," Emily grins, humor sliding back into her voice and her cheeks. She reaches a hand up to brush along Jon's temple. "There's no need to spiral, babe."

Jon's body stutters. His heart misses a beat, his breath catches, his thoughts trip. "I beg to differ," he croaks.

Emily laughs, high and tinkering. "Your time's run out for that. We're here."

Jon shakes his head, "where?," before looking up at the bar tent.

Emily reaches down, pulling open the canvas flap and holding it out for him. "Stop asking so many questions and get inside."

Jon swallows, taking a step forward. He turns his shoulder to step past her, her body so close to his that he can feel her breathing, and into the room.

It's bright with sunlight but he's blinded by the smiles that greet him. Lovett's wide smirk from where he's sitting, cross-legged, on top of a table, his elbow resting on Tommy's shoulder. Elijah's encouraging smile, small and hopeful, from where he's leaning against Pri. Tanya's careful grin as she reaches for Emily's hand, pulling Emily onto the table next to her and grinning as, Jon assumes, she reads their conversation in Emily's memories.

Jon’s heart beats so hard, he’s absolutely certain that everyone in the room can hear it. 

Alyssa pushes off, squeezing Dan’s knee before stepping forward and holding out her hand. “Hey Jon.”

“Hi,” Jon croaks, his pulse trembling through his voice. “What am I doing here?”

Alyssa takes his hand, squeezing reassuringly and drawing him closer, nothing but a smile for him even as she glares over his shoulder. “Making things right.”

Lovett raises his palms. “I jumped the gun a little, but, all’s well that ends well, right?”

“We’ve yet to end well,” Emily sighs, crossing her legs and leaning closer to Tanya.

Jon looks from them, to Lovett, then back to Alyssa. He was pretty sure that this was going to be okay, but- Atlanta, he tells himself, over and over again. Atlanta is waiting to pick up the pieces of his broken heart. He swallows. “What gun?”

Alyssa shakes her head, fondly, and squeezes his hand. “Come sit. Please?”

Jon nods, letting her pull him onto an empty bench. She crosses her ankles under her knees, resting half her weight on him. Jon’s fingers are sweating in hers. “What’s going on? Please, just, tell me.”

Lovett lowers his palms, turning to rest his chest against Tommy’s strong shoulder. “The suspense isn’t quite going as I’d planned.”

Tommy snorts, turning to kiss the side of Lovett’s head. “Just get on with it, Lo. Put the poor man out of his misery.”

“Can we stop with all the murder imagery?” Jon sighs.

Tommy chuckles, dropping his head and blinking, warmly, at Jon through his lashes.

“My talents are never appreciated,” Lovett sighs through the widest grin. “Anyway, so, you’re a smart guy, Jon. It couldn’t have escaped your notice that we’re all-“ Lovett motions around the small tent- “together.”

Jon nods, feeling Alyssa’s hand tighten in his. “Yeah. And if I hadn’t, Tommy explained it to me.”

“_Tommy_,” Tanya sighs deeply.

Lovett hits Tommy’s shoulder. “That’s gotta be worse than kissing him. You deserve at least half my flack.”

“Maybe thirty percent,” Dan snorts, crossing his arms over his chest. There’s a new bracelet tattooed around his wrist, five interlocking stones on the half of his skin that Jon can see. 

“Sorry,” Tommy grimaces. “He asked and I didn’t want to lie about you all.”

“Ahh,” Pri breathes.

“Don’t let him trick you.” Lovett shakes a finger at her. “He knows you too well.”

Pri shrugs. “And that’s a bad thing?”

Lovett huffs and Tommy reaches up to take his hand, rubbing his thumb over the inside of Lovett’s wrist. “He was going to learn anyway. I just smoothed the way for this conversation.”

“You did,” Alyssa agrees, squeezing Jon’s hand to get his attention. She’s smiling with her entire face and, no matter how Jon searches for it, he can’t find insincerity or a warning in the wrinkles of her skin. “Did Tommy tell you that we add new people unanimously?”

Jon glances at Tommy’s flushed face, and nods. “Yeah, yeah he, ahh, mentioned that.”

“Well-” Lovett looks at Jon over Tommy’s shoulder, his mouth twitching as he tries to keep himself from grinning and failing utterly- “we took a vote.”

Jon’s mind twists and disperses, leaving his thoughts blank. “You took a vote? On-?”

“On you, idiot,” Emily says fondly. “Are we sure we want him still? He seems awfully daft.”

Tanya elbows her. “Shh, love.”

Jon blinks at Emily. “I don’t understand- you took a vote on me?”

“I’m with Em.” Lovett rolls his eyes, then leans forward. “I wasn’t allowed to kiss you until we made it official. So, we made it official.”

Alyssa squeezes his hand, drawing his attention back to her and his thoughts rush back in with a roar. “If you want.”

Jon shakes his head, feeling his smile widen and widen as he takes in her face as if it’s the first time he’s seeing it. “If I want? I-” He slides forward in his seat, forcing himself to look away from her and to the rest of the tent. “I’ve been wanting so much for so long.”

Lovett grins, twisting his wrist to take Tommy’s hand. “That’s-”

Tommy squeezes Lovett’s hand, and interrupts. “You can take some time. We know exactly how big of a decision this is.”

Jon swallows, mind reeling. “What- What if I don’t want to?”

“Then things stay exactly as they have been,” Dan promises, pushing off from his table. He rubs his thumb against his new tattoo, his face twisting in an effort to remain even. “You help me with MC duties and we stay friends, all of us.”

“With a little less secret kissing with Lovett and Dan,” Tanya adds sharply.

“We didn’t do it on purpose,” Lovett glares.

“No,” Jon frowns, interrupting them. His palms are sweating where he’s squeezed them between his thighs. “What if I don’t want to take time?”

“Oh.” Emily claps her hand together as she turns her brightest glare on Dan. “I told you he’d surprise us.”

Dan holds his hands up, his shirt pulling a little so that Jon can see the bottom of his own tattoo on Dan’s hip. “I was just being cautious, I’m sorry. I know how you get your hopes up.”

Emily flushes and Jon turns to look at her, _really_ look at her. “You had your hopes up?”

She snorts, rolling her eyes. “Weren’t you listening to a word I said out there?”

“When we were-?” Jon frowns. “I was too busy trying to figure out if you were kicking me out of the troupe or if you were leaving yourself to listen to much.”

Tanya turns so she can hit Emily’s shoulder. “What did you say?”

“Nothing,” Emily squeaks, turning to glower at Jon. “Nothing to make him think I was _leaving_.”

Next to him, he can feel Alyssa laughing with her entire body. Jon shakes his head a little. “I didn’t know what you meant. You were being awfully cryptic.”

Emily huffs, then pushes herself up off her bench. She holds out her hand. “This is what I meant.”

Jon swallows. His entire body feels warm and he’s not entirely sure that his legs can hold his weight, until Alyssa pushes him forward.

Emily’s hand is warmer than it was outside, gentler and softer and _his_, fuck, he can do this forever, if he can just-

She tugs him close, catching him as he stumbles across the uneven ground on wobbly knees. “Stop me if you want, but, otherwise, shut up and enjoy it.”

Jon laughs helplessly, his body going slack and unresisting in her hands as she pulls him down for a kiss. His world narrows to this place, right here, right now, right where he’s supposed to be.

***


	12. Long Island

**Long Island, NY 1934**

“Hi,” Jon smiles shyly as he steps out of the tent and into step with Elijah. His lips are raw and red and used. “You were quiet back there.”

Elijah shakes his head, reaching out to wrap his fingers around Jon’s wrist and stop him outside the cook tent. Pri stops ahead of them, turning with a questioning look, but Elijah nods her away. “We’ll be right behind you.”

Pri walks backwards, blowing them both kisses. Jon watches her, his wrist burning under Elijah’s fingers and his mouth burning from the memory of Pri’s, until the canvas door has closed behind her, leaving them alone. Jon swallows, flicking his eyes back to Elijah, so afraid of what he might see that he can’t breathe. “If you don’t want me- I need you to be honest with me, Elijah.”

Elijah rubs his thumb against the inside of Jon’s wrist. “I’m not as good with words as my partners.”

Jon swallows, turning his body toward the warmth of Elijah’s. He feels eight years old again, hope pounding through him for a future so impossibly good that he can’t bring himself to reach out and grasp onto it. “I don’t need much.”

Elijah chuckles, his eyes dark and unfathomable as he looks at Jon’s. “How about this?” He traces Jon’s temple with his free hand, his gaze softening. “I love you, Jon. I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember.”

Jon’s knees soften and he leans into Elijah’s touch, reaching out for Elijah’s hip with his free hand. “You too, god, Elijah, I dreamed about you for so long. I love you.”

Elijah nods, his eyes even darker as he lifts his chin, pulling Jon towards him. Jon goes, his neck softening as Elijah’s hand slides around to touch him, steadying and warm and _there_, always there, like he’ll always be there. Jon chokes, his mind racing through a million worries, discarding each one as Elijah’s lips touch his, tasting like moonshine and beans and the future he’s been offering for so much longer than Jon’s been willing to listen.

“Oh there you are,” Emily’s voice comes from behind them, amusement in her words. “Come on, everyone’s waiting for the guest of honor.”

Jon swallows, his cheeks flushed as he pulls just far enough back to be able to breathe. Elijah’s just as flushed as he is, his breath coming quick and shallow. “Start without us.”

“Ah uh,” Emily laughs, “that’s not how this family works. Get your asses inside.”

Elijah laughs, his breath ghosting against Jon’s lips. “We better do what she says before she brings the cavalry.”

“Damn right,” Emily nods, already turning on her heel.

Elijah drops his hand down, catching Jon’s on his hip and twisting their fingers together. Jon squeezes back, hard enough to hurt, but Elijah doesn’t protest as he drags Jon inside, murmuring, “there’s not a speech you have to do or anything, relax.”

Jon makes an undignified noise as they step into the warmth and noise of the cook tent. “That was an option?”

“Dan tried it for a little while,” Elijah shrugs, “but it didn’t stick.”

“Thank god.” 

“Thank god for what?” Lovett asks, as he pats the empty seat next to him.

Jon sighs, his fingers lingering over Elijah’s as they separate. He slides onto the bench as he admits, “I don’t have a speech prepared.”

“That’s disappointing,” Lovett shrugs. He lifts out of his seat to reach across the table for the plate of corn. “You like corn right?”

Lovett places the corn between them as he retakes his seat, cross-legged, letting his knee rest casually over Jon’s thigh. Like they do this every day. Like, maybe, Lovett’s been dreaming about this enough to make it feel normal, just as Jon has.

“Um,” Jon blinks, reaching for an ear. “Yeah, I do.”

“Good,” Emily grins, pressing her ankle to his, sliding her toes under the hem of his pant legs. “We thought you’d enjoy a change of pace from beans.”

“I would,” Jon nods, quickly, “I would. Thank you.”

And he would. On any other day, he’d be shouting his joy over the lack of beans from the highest seat in the Big Top. Tonight, though, Jon doesn’t even taste the few bites he manages to get down in-between Pri’s shy smiles and Tommy’s flushed cheeks. He can’t focus on anything but the way Tanya brushes her fingers against his as she passes the potatoes and the way she smiles, wide and hopeful, at whatever she finds in Jon’s mind. He can’t think around the way his mouth dries every time he sees Dan watching him, his eyes warm and gentle and just as hopeful. He can’t move as Pri looks up at him, her teeth filled with corn and her giggle warm and inviting as it ushers him into her.

Finally, after he’s eaten half his ear of corn and Tommy’s demolished three servings of everything, Jon looks up. “So, ahh, I really don’t have a speech prepared and, honestly, without my power you really don’t want to hear what I have to say.”

“That’s not true-“ Pri starts to say, before Tanya rests her fingers comfortingly on Pri’s arm.

Jon smiles softly at her. “But I did want to say, under the risk of sounding too forward. I, ahh, really meant what I said about not needing time. At all.”

Michael chokes on his roll and Elijah slaps his back, his eyes twinkling dark and wanting.

“Surprised us again,” Emily crows, her face round and healthy even under the artificial lights. “That’s two to me, Pfeiffer.”

Dan snorts, “we didn’t bet on this,” and reaches for Jon’s hand. “You really want to?”

Jon nods, squeezing Dan’s fingers. “If you want to. If _I’m_ not being too forward.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Lovett asks, already sliding up from his seat, his knee knocking against Jon’s in his hurry. “Wagon, now.”

***

Jon’s knees hit the edge of the extra-large mattress filling most of the wagon at the same time as Lovett slides his hand under Jon’s shirt. “Can I?”

Jon nods, eagerly and unnecessarily, as the momentum of his fall pulls the hem up to his armpits. He laughs, “please,” and raises his arms over his head. “Fuck, please.”

“You look incredible like this,” Emily giggles as she kneels on the bed next to Jon’s hip, running her nails up Jon’s ribs as she tips herself around him and into the back corner. She tugs Tanya and Pri after her, both of them flushed and giddy.

“The woman knows what she’s talking about,” Lovett grins, getting Jon’s shirt over his head with a little effort. “You’re so fucking eager.”

For the brief moment when Jon’s shirt is tight around his eyes, obscuring his vision, he panics. A white hot flash of fear that raises the hairs on the back of his neck and shivers down his spine like the fingers of all the anonymous men and women he’d taken to bed before. Dozens of them, smiling and eager and wanting the version of Jon he was willing and able to show them. The version of Jon that’s more than half his power and almost none of _him_. The version of Jon with talented fingers and an even more talented mouth to cover the lack of anything underneath. The version of Jon who had conquered and came and then left, leaving nothing behind but a warm smile and happy residue of his power in his wake.

No one has ever wanted Jon for _Jon_, before.

For that moment of white-hot, blinding panic, he reaches for his power, feeling it shimmer under his skin in flashes of lightning and rivers of heat. But then his shirt is pooling to the floor and there’s nothing between him and Lovett but the hunger in Lovett’s eyes and the warmth of Lovett’s fingers on his chest. Hungry. Wanting. Desperate to touch Jon as if he can’t get enough of Jon any better than Jon can of him.

Jon’s power slides out of him as quickly as it can, leaving nothing but the bubbling warmth of joy of actual attraction. It rises in Jon’s throat and spills over in gasps of laughter.

Lovett snorts, his fingers stuttering on Jon’s side. “Not quite the reaction I was looking for.”

Jon shakes his head, sliding his hand under Lovett’s shirt. He spreads his fingers wide, feeling Lovett’s muscles jump to meet him. “I’ve just been waiting for so long.”

Lovett bows his back to help Jon pull his shirt over his own head. His entire chest is flushed as he groans out, “since fucking New Orleans,” which isn’t _quite_ what Jon meant, but is no less true. Lovett shakes his head, like he can’t quite believe his luck as he knees between Jon’s spread thigh, the mattress dripping with the weight of him and rippling all the way back to where Pri is giggling, half-naked, in Tanya’s lap behind them.

Jon watches the way Pri’s breasts hang against her body, her nipples hard under Tanya’s thumb, before he shakes himself and turns back to Lovett. He raises his own thumb to flick against Lovett’s nipple, raising his knees to set Lovett off-balance and pull Lovett into his chest. “Me too.”

Dan catches Lovett, his hand strong and steadying on Lovett’s back as he slides onto the bed next to Jon, his breath warm on Jon’s ear. His thighs bunch as he balances on his knees, freeing a hand to run down Jon’s side, his fingers tracing the exact path Emily did moments before. “I can’t claim quite as long-”

“Because some of us don’t cheat,” Michael snorts, his fingers tight on Dan’s shoulder as he steps around him and collapses onto the free end of the bed. His cheeks are flushed and his shirt is already half untucked from his pants.

“Oh,” Alyssa snorts, crawling after him and settling over his thighs, “Dan cheated alright.”

Dan sighs. “I told you that in confidence.”

“Did you?” Alyssa flushes as she spreads one small, strong hand on Michael’s upper thigh. “That ship sailed the moment Jon agreed, against all better judgement, to be part of this family.” 

Lovett runs his fingers, pale and shaking, over Jon’s temple, his other sliding down Jon’s stomach. “I hope you know what you’ve gotten yourself into. You have about five move seconds to pull out before it’s too late.”

Jon’s heart leaps high enough to bump against his tonsils. Lovett wants him, Michael and Alyssa want him, Pri and Em and Tanya will want him once they’ve remembered that he’s here again, _Dan_ wants him, has wanted him since- “I don’t care how long you have, as long as you want me now,” he says, his eyes bright and steady on Dan’s.

Dan swallows, his eyes blue and misty. His fingers trip over Jon’s ribs. “So fucking much.”

“Then I’m all in,” Jon nods, trying to keep his tone serious but feeling a wild, runaway grin twitching at the corners of his mouth. It’s not even hard to promise, “I’m not going anywhere,” and mean it with every muscle in his body that, until now, haven’t been training to do anything but run.

Dan groans, shifting to bracket Jon’s hips, so that Jon can feel just how into Jon’s commitment he is. “_Jon_.”

Jon turns to kiss him, Dan’s lips going soft and loose under him. “Not what you expected?”

“From a city boy?” Dan murmurs “Never.”

Jon snorts. “Not such a city boy anymore.”

“You’re always gonna be a city boy to us,” Emily laughs, her tone sliding up and high as Pri slides her hand under Emily’s skirt.

Jon turns his head further, feeling Dan’s breath on his temple and the weight of Lovett on his thighs. “That’s awfully unfair.”

Emily winks at him, her own breath coming in short puffs as her skirt moves with the rhythm of Pri’s fingers. “You gotta work with what you’ve got.”

Jon frowns, turning back to Dan and taking his hands off Lovett’s hips so that he can lift Dan’s shirt. Jon’s tattoo is there, where it feels like it’s always been, faded into Dan’s skin. “These are calloused hands.”

Dan reaches for Jon’s hand, letting his shirt fall back into place as he lifts Jon’s fingers to his lips to kiss them. “They are. They’re yours.”

“They are,” Jon swallows. Dan’s lips burn through him, sliding down his chest and settling between his legs. “They’re- They mean- They have to-“

“Yeah.” Dan pulls Jon’s hand to his chest and leans closer, kissing him, softer this time. “They mean that you’re mine. Ours.”

Jon whines low in his throat, pressing his mouth into Dan and lifting his hips into Lovett’s in his lap. “I want to be.”

Dan shakes his head, pulling Jon's chin closer. "Em's right," he murmurs against Jon's lips, more awed than anything Jon's power has ever elicited, "you're a goddamn surprise, Jon Favreau."

Jon chuckles joyously. "You say it like it's a bad thing."

Emily snorts, sliding out of Pri's hands and towards him. "Dan's never quite learned how to modulate his tone." 

She reaches out a hand, running it up Jon's back as Lovett tips sideways, off of Jon's thighs and into Tommy’s waiting hands. Dan rolls his eyes but tugs her closer, into both of them. "I don't hear you complaining most of the time."

Emily shrugs, her bare breasts soft and loose against Jon's arm. "I like to keep you on your toes."

Tanya leans over, her hand brushing against Em's breast and then traveling up Jon's arm. Her fingers are just the wrong side of soft, as if she's searching for something from him. Jon pushes everything he's feeling - the prick of Emily's nipple against his arm, the ghost of Dan's breath against his lips, the warmth on his thighs where Lovett just was, the love that’s coursing through his veins, filling all the spaces his power used to invade - into the touch, hoping that at least something in it is what Tanya wants to feel.

Tanya’s smile brightens the room and her fingers soften on Jon’s temple. “I love you too, Jon.”

Jon turns his chin to kiss her fingertips. “I thought you didn’t-“

“I don’t.” Tanya laughs, high and light, and leans in to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Doesn’t mean that I don’t love you.”

Jon nods, feeling Tanya settle in his heart in the space he’s left for her between Emily and Lovett. He lifts his hand to her wrist, rubbing her pulse point with his thumb and feeling her jump towards him. “I love you too. So much.”

Tanya grins, leaning closer to him for a long moment, before pulling back and grabbing Emily’s hand. “In that case, I’ll just get this one outta your hair for a bit.”

Emily drags her fingernail across Jon’s spine as she lets herself be pulled away with a deep sigh and a half-hearted protest.

Jon giggles, leaning back into Dan’s hands. “Bye, Em. Have fun.”

“Oh,” Emily scoffs, the sound slipping into a giggle as Tanya pushes her onto her back and slides between her legs. “I plan to.”

A new hand slides over Jon’s thigh, the fingers long and talented, and Jon shivers as Michael chuckles, “we do too,” loudly and then, into Jon’s ear, “you can count on Em stealing you later.”

Jon shivers, noting the feel of Michael around him and filing it away for later, to mull over in his dreams. “Doesn’t count as stealing if I don’t put up a fight.”

Dan laughs, delightedly, his breath warm on Jon’s skin as he bends to kiss a trail down Jon’s ribs. “Smart man.”

“Too smart for your own good,” Lovett snorts, bracketing Jon’s other side and running his fingers in almost the same pattern as Dan’s mouth, tantalizingly off rhythm so that Jon feels frustratingly blanketed by not quite enough stimulation.

“Hey,” Jon tries to frown from the center of his haze, feeling his body sway towards Lovett’s.

Lovett shrugs, moving his fingers faster but not nearly fast enough. He grabs Jon’s chin with his free hand. “There’s one way you can shut me up.”

“Is there?” Jon asks, pushing into him. He reaches for Lovett’s hips, so soft and bare and perfectly built for Jon’s hands, and pulls him close enough to kiss with all the heat pulsing through them both. Jon feels it sizzle up Jon’s chest from where it’s pooled in the tops of his thighs and the strength of his arms, and settle into his mouth, where his power used to sit.

Lovett makes a surprised, happy sound, his hands scrambling at Jon’s shoulders to pull him even closer. His shoulder presses into Jon’s chest, almost hard enough to hurt, like he’s trying to bury himself there, to make a physical place for himself alongside the mental place he already has.

“God,” Lovett laughs, pulling at Jon’s shoulders and pulling them both backwards, onto the bed, “you’re so fucking much.”

Jon laughs, his knees planting on either side of Lovett’s hips. He leans down to kiss him again. And again. “I am?”

Tommy snorts, sliding a hand down Jon’s back and over the curve of his ass, finishing with a tantalizing finger along the ball of Jon’s bare foot. “Stop fishing for compliments you already know you have.”

Jon shivers, his dick jumping in his pants. “Tommy,” he groans out.

Tommy lowers his mouth to follow the path of his hand. “Yeah?”

“That feels …. so ….” Jon trembles, his voice shaking with it. “Fuck.”

“His mouth,” Dan whispers, lifting up to kiss behind Jon’s ear. His arm circles Jon’s back and Jon’s sure that it’s meant to be steadying but the pressure throws Jon even further off orbit.

Jon turns his head, desperately, searching for Dan’s mouth without any sense of where it is. The world is hazy around him, flashes of Pri’s giggles and Alyssa’s moans, the heat of Tommy’s breathing and the solidity of Lovett’s hardness pressing against his own. Jon gasps when Dan finally slots their mouths together, unerringly. “Yours too, fuck.”

Dan grins into his mouth. “Seems to be going around.”

Jon shivers. Distantly, he hears the high, elongated sound of Emily coming under Pri’s mouth. He gasps out, “you can’t just _say_ stuff like that.”

“I think-” Dan laughs, kissing his neck- “you’ll find-” Dan kisses his collarbone- “that I can.”

Jon arches under him, his back bowing outwards.

Tommy chuckles, tracing his hand up Jon’s ankles, kneading through the tight muscles of his calves. Another sign of the work Jon’s been putting in for months, to make himself fit into this bed and into this troupe. Tommy’s thumb hits a knot, and he grins as he pushes into it. “Can I take your pants off?”

Jon gasps, dropping his neck into Dan’s mouth, his forehead brushing against Lovett’s chest. He’s vindicated to feel Lovett’s breath catch under him as Jon nods desperately. “Please.”

Dan lifts his head to kiss Jon’s temple. “You’re so damn responsive.”

Jon shakes his head, the feeling of Tommy’s hands at his waist, under his pants, touching the bare backs of his thighs, swimming with the taste of Lovett’s chest against his lips and the sight of Dan’s flushed, grinning face. “It’s too much. How do you-?” Jon gasps. “I don’t know where to focus.”

Tommy lifts Jon’s knee, sliding Jon’s pants between his skin and the mattress. Tommy sounds nervous as he asks, “in a good way, yeah?”

Jon nods quickly, a burst of breath sliding along Lovett’s nipple. Lovett groans and shakes in his hands as Jon promises, “yeah, in a- fuck, yeah, in the best way. As long as I’m not leaving anyone out.”

Alyssa giggles from the middle of the bed, leaning out of Michael’s grasp to touch the back of Jon’s head softly. “Nah, we’re all pretty good at asking for what we want.”

Jon lifts his head, sliding back onto Lovett’s hips and reaching for Alyssa’s waist to pull her closer. “Good,” he whispers against her mouth. “I like people who know what they want.”

“Ironic,” Alyssa laughs, her chest pressing into his. “Given how we met.”

“I’ve come a long way since then,” Jon promises, tipping off of Lovett and into her. He lifts a hand up her stomach, then pauses. “Can I?”

Alyssa’s breath catches and she moves to straddle his bent knees. “Please do.”

“Fuck.” Jon pulls her tunic down, stretching the material to rest below her breasts. She groans, pushing into him, her nipples hardening before Jon even gets his thumbs on them. “You’re gorgeous.”

Alyssa groans, her hips pushing into his, the center of her hot even through the layers of her skirts. Jon groans, his bare dick brushing against her, wetting the fabric. Alyssa reaches down, touching him with just her thumb, brushing across the weeping head. “You’re one to talk.”

“God.” Jon shakes, arching into her thumb. He brings his free hand under the hem of her tunic, flattening it against her stomach and sliding it just under her waistband, just low enough to run a nail through the top layer of her curls. “And you feel fucking amazing.”

Alyssa groans, pushing up a little to force his hand lower. “_Your hands, _Jon, more, please.”

Jon spreads his fingers, his middle just long enough to tap against her clit, light and tantalizing. “You’re so warm, ‘Lys.”

“Yeah?” Alyssa gasps, her back bowing.

Dan slides around her side, kissing her shoulder as he reaches for the hem of her tunic and pulls it upwards. “She runs hot. It helps, the less clothes she’s wearing.”

“It’s a thing,” Pri giggles from behind them. Jon glances over, just long enough to see her knees spread around Emily’s head, her fingers dark and long in Emily’s blond hair. “Alyssa and I both.”

Jon nods, his throat dry. He’s caught, half his mind mesmerized by the clenching rhythm of Pri’s thighs, the other half caught on the acres of Alyssa’s flushed skin Dan’s uncovering. His voice is croaked as he gets out, “it’s a wonderful thing.”

“Except on summer nights,” Pri grins, turning her head to watch them, “when everyone makes us sleep on the floor.”

Dan snorts. “I never hear either of you complain.” He tosses Alyssa’s tunic onto the floor and slides his hands up her chest to cup her breasts. They fill his hands, spilling over the tops of his fingers.

“The opposite, usually,” Tommy snorts.

Jon laughs. He leans forward to suck at Alyssa’s nipple and Dan’s index finger. “That sounds reasonable.”

Pri reaches across the bed to pinch Dan’s side.

Dan yelps. “I didn’t say it.”

Pri shrugs, her shoulders moving against the bed. Her hair is spread across her pillowcase, tousled and unkempt. “You meant it.”

Emily lifts her head, her fingers spread on Pri’s inner thighs as she presses downwards. “I’d appreciate it if you meant something else. Like, I don’t know, paying attention to the woman trying to eat you out?”

Pri giggles, rolling her eyes even as her entire chest flushes. She winks at Jon. “My majesty is demanding my attention.”

“Damn right,” Emily mumbles, sliding her fingers up to spread Pri even wider.

Pri groans, arching her back. Her head falls back to center, her neck straining to see Emily down the bed. She lifts her calves to rest over Emily’s back, pressing hard and rhythmically against her shoulder blades.

Alyssa lifts her chin to kiss under Jon’s jaw. “Hot, aren’t they?”

Jon nods, his neck as weak as his voice. “How do you stand it?”

Alyssa laughs, curling her fingers around Jon’s dick and thrusting twice. “Usually by joining in.”

Jon groans, lifting his fingers out of her skirt and hooking both his hands around her underwear. “Can I?”

“Please,” Alyssa grins, pulling him into a kiss, deep and filthy and full of tongue. Jon notes the rhythm, memorizing it for the moment he gets her skirt around her ankles and then off the bed, into the growing pile of their clothes. Alyssa groans. “_Jon_.”

Jon whimpers, sliding down her chest, kissing her breasts and then trails his mouth down to her belly button. He glances himself on one hand next to her hip, and raises the other between her legs, slipping through her curls and the wetness in the crook of her thighs. “God, you want this.”

Alyssa pushes down, pulsing closer to him, dripping across his fingertips. “You haven’t been _listening_.”

Jon shakes his head, sliding his middle finger up the length of her, slipping in her wetness, before sliding the tip into the heat of her. “I’m a visual guy. I need to see the evidence before I believe it.”

Alysas groans, tipping her head back, her hair cascading around her shoulders in sweaty strands. “You’re a brat is what you are.”

Jon grins, lifting up to kiss her jaw as he slides his finger in deeper. She’s so hot and wet around him, pulsing tight and rhythmic. He groans through, “you don’t seem to mind too much.”

“No,” Alyssa shakes her head. She tilts her chin towards Dan, begging for a kiss as she whines “more, Jon, _more, _god.”

Across the mattress, Pri cries out, screaming through her first orgasm and tipping into a second one instantly. Jon’s ears burn as he crooks his finger, curling it at the knuckle and scraping along her slick walls. He looks over just in time to see Emily lift her head, her lips red and swollen and her chin dripping. She grins as she catches Jon’s eyes. Emily nods at Alyssa. “She can take a lot.”

Jon groans, tipping forward and pushing his second finger in to the hilt on the first try. “That’s so fucking hot.”

Alyssa cries out, her hips rising off Jon’s thighs, her stomach muscles trembling. “Your fingers, _Jon_.”

Jon winks at Dan, waiting until he has a hand on Alyssa’s lower back to steady her, before they both settle her back against the mattress. Jon hovers over her, her knees spread around hers and the proof of her arousal painting her inner thighs and his wrist. He scissors his fingers. “Yeah?”

“Stop asking questions,” Alyssa bites out, clenching down around him. “You’re fucking perfect.”

Jon flushes, drinking in every sound of her, every gasp and twist of her breath around his name, every gush of her arousal and every flutter of her insides. He’s never made a woman feel like this, and definitely not without talking her through it, pillowing her on the strength of his power. Alyssa doesn’t need any of that. She needs his fingers and his voice. She needs him over her and in her and around her.

Jon twists his fingers so that he can stretch his thumb to her clit. “I’ve got you, love.”

Alyssa bucks down, her thighs fluttering. “More, _please_.”

Jon swallows. When he’s gotten women there with his words, he’s never needed more than a finger or two, perhaps a tap against her clit if he could find it. Now, he watches Alyssa, drinks her in, marks down everything he does to draw out every tremble and groan and catch of her breath. He files them all away to analyze later and does them again, flushing as hard as she is, barely even aware of how hard he is against her thigh or what a mess he’s making of the sheets.

Pri stretches, the tightening of her stomach muscles catching Jon’s attention momentarily, and then rolls languidly onto her side to watch them. Her entire body is shimmering in reds and pinks and blues, the heat of fire flickering across her skin. “Fuck, she likes that Jon.”

Jon swallows, curling his fingers again, teasing the tip of a third against Alyssa’s opening without looking away from Pri. “Good. That’s-”

Pri giggles, running her hand down her own side and down to her curls, still damp from her first two orgasms. “You can add another finger.”

Jon groans, pushing forward, the tip sliding in alongside his first two. “Really?”

Alyssa clenches around him, then opens even further, the proof of her arousal dripping down his wrist. “Please.”

Michael slides up the bed, slapping Pri’s hand aside. “None of that.”

Pri shrugs, rolling onto her back, “get to work then,” without looking away from Jon and Alyssa. “I bet she could take his whole fist.”

Michael groans, his hips bucking against the bed. His tongue stutters between Pri’s thighs.

“Fuck,” Alyssa groans. “Not gonna last that long this time.”

Jon cuts off a breath, slipping his third finger all the way in and scissoring them slowly. He watches her face carefully, waiting for a sign, any sign, that enough is enough, but she’s gazing up at him, her eyes wide and open and wanting. “Sometime though. If you want?”

Alyssa lifts her neck to kiss him, her mouth open and her breath uneven. “If _I want_? Of course I fucking want.”

Jon chuckles, moving his fingers a little more confidently, brushing against her walls and spreading her wider. “Sometime, then.”

Alyssa gasps into his mouth, her lips fluttering fruitlessly. “Focus on today though. Fuck, fuck, I’m-”

Tommy spreads into the space between her and Pri, his hands coming up to caress Alyssa’s breasts, thumbing her hard nipples. “Come on, Lys. I know you’re close.”

Alyssa gasps, pulling away from Jon to breathe. She presses down into his fingers, then up into Tommy’s. “I’m so fucking close.”

Jon twists his fingers, crooking them just right and pressing down against her clit at the same time. “What do you need?”

Alyssa pushes down into him, her thighs shaking around him. “That, please, Jon, _please_.”

Jon swallows, doubling his efforts. He twists the heel of his palm in a long, hard circle against her clit, giving her something to thrust against as he scissors his fingers just right, and just right again, and-

Alyssa cries out, clamping down around his hand with a soft cry that echoes through the wagon. It slides over the soft sounds of Michael’s tongue on Pri, Emily’s gasps around Tanya’s, and the rustle of fabric as Tommy presses his palm between his legs, umbrella-ing them all and capturing them all here, in this moment, for as long as Jon can work her through it.

“Keep going,” Pri whispers, her voice sliding under it all, “keep going, she can do another.”

“Fuck.” Jon gasps, ducking his head to bite along Alyssa’s collarbone, feeling Tommy’s wrist flex as he presses against her breasts. Jon curls his fingers again, pressing down against her, feeling Alyssa clenching around him. Her thighs lift, her knees shaking as she cries out, louder this time, Jon’s name audible as it bounces around the walls of the wagon and probably through the cracks in the wood. Jon would be embarrassed, if he was capable of feeling anything other than pride as Alyssa’s chest heaves.

She reaches down, wrapping her fingers around his wrist, slowing him.

“That’s-” Jon groans, pushing his dick into both their hands. “How-?”

“You made her,” Tommy grins, his hands softening to cup her breasts gently. “You made her feel so good, Jon.”

Jon shakes his head, his eyes blurring and his heart beating painfully against his ribcage. He leans down, wanting, asking, but unsure until Alyssa wraps her free hand around his neck and pulls him down into a kiss.

“You’re so much, Jon,” she gasps, her breath hot against his mouth.

“That was amazing,” Jon groans. He pulls his fingers out carefully, wiping them on the quilt next to her before sliding them up her thighs, warm and soft and comforting. “_Alyssa_.”

Next to them, Pri cries out, her fingers tightening in Michael’s hair, her legs shaking around his ear. Michael works her through it, then pulls back, resting his cheek on her thigh. “Okay, love?”

“Don’t look so smug,” Pri laughs, pushing at his head affectionately. “They were hot as fuck. Are _you_ okay?”

Jon laughs, leaning over Alyssa to kiss her, tasting her own orgasm sour on her tongue. “I’m so good. I’ve never been so good.”

Tommy grins, reaching around Alyssa to rest his hand on Jon’s thigh, spreading his fingers just inches from Jon’s dick. “I can see just how good.”

Jon’s breath catches and he pushes towards Tommy’s hand. “Fuck, I want you.”

“Yeah?” Tommy grins, shifting closer to them. Jon can see how hard he is in his own pants, straining up and towards where Jon and Alyssa’s legs are twisted together. “You can have me. You can have anything.”

Jon nods, his cheeks flushing. “Please, Tommy, fuck, _please_.”

Alyssa laughs, her breaths deepening. She tips Jon sideways and scrambles out from under him, shifting to curl into Pri’s side. 

Tommy takes her place, flipping Jon over and crawling between his legs. “Hi.”

Jon reaches for him, pulling him up and into a kiss. His mouth feels slack and warm and he wants to touch Tommy everywhere. “Hey.”

Tommy slides a hand down Jon’s chest, sure and practiced. “You’re awfully flushed.”

“You think?” Jon groans, the sarcasm lost. “You just watched that, didn’t you?”

Tommy chuckles against Jon’s mouth. “It was gorgeous. I think it’s your turn now, though.”

“Yeah?” Jon arches into him. “What are you doing to do with me?”

Elijah pulls away from his place at Dan’s side and hooks his chin over Tommy’s shoulder, pressing a kiss to Tommy’s neck. “If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll open you up so that I can fuck you.”

Jon swallows, his entire chest rising and falling with the promise of it.

“That’s a directive I can take,” Tommy grins. He turns his head towards where Alyssa and Pri are curled together. “Michael, where’s that better batch of lube you made last week?”

Michael snorts, not even lifting his head from Pri’s thigh. “You know it’s in the hanging basket. Where it always is.”

Elijah chuckles, reaching around Tommy to squeeze the inside of Jon’s knee. “That plan sound okay with you?”

Jon blinks at him. Elijah’s fingers feel as hot and calloused against Jon’s softest spot, just as Jon has always imagined they would. “More than.”

Elijah grins, squeezing tightly. “Good,” he says, like he’s threatening it as much as promising it, especially as he leans back on his heels to make room for Tommy.

Emily lifts her head from between Tanya’s legs, her eyes glazed over and her cheeks flushed. “Tommy’s fingers feel amazing, too.”

Jon shivers, feeling it from his forehead all the way to his toes. “That’s- that’s a lot of knowledge.”

Pri laughs, stretching as far as she can to run her knuckles down his side. “There’s plenty more where that came from. What would you like to know?”

Jon wants to know- Jon wants to know how Pri would feel, clenching down around his tongue. Jon wants to know what Lovett would sound like with his dick leaking on Jon’s tongue. Jon wants to know how wet Emily would feel, how all her contractions would feel squeezed around his dick. Jon wants- “Everything,” he gasps. “I want to know _everything_.”

“Well,” Pri laughs, “I can tell you that Em’s balance is even more amazing in bed than on the trapeze. And Dan shows more authority with his dick than he does in the ring.”

Jon’s heart skips a beat. “Fuck, Pri.”

“Two can play this game,” Dan laughs, rolling onto his side and running a hand down Jon’s chest. “Pri is tighter than a vice and she’s hotter than the flames she blows.”

Pri grins, running her fingers through Michael’s hair where he’s still resting on her thigh. “I am, that’s true.”

Jon whimpers through his haze. “Can I find out sometime?”

Pri grins widely. “Of course, love. Anytime you want.”

“Soon,” Tommy promises. He sits back on his heels between Jon’s knees, squirting lube onto his fingers. “But not now.”

Jon throws his head back, hitting Lovett’s thigh and resting there. “This is too much.”

Tommy laughs, touching a finger to Jon’s inner thigh and sliding it upwards. “I’ve barely even touched you yet.”

“He’s so responsive,” Alyssa yawns from Pri’s side. “He’s incredible.”

“He is.” Pri wraps an arm around Alyssa’s shoulders, pulling her close. “Knew he would be.”

“You-” Jon’s brain lands on that thought, but it’s too hot and too impossible to touch, and it slides off. “You thought about me?”

Pri giggles into Alyssa’s hair. “Practically since you got here.”

Dan snorts, sliding his hand under Jon’s dick and resting it there. “Don’t give away state secrets.”

“No,” Jon turns his head to look at Pri, batting his eyelashes the way he always used to in bed. “Please, tell me. Tell me everything.”

“That doesn’t work on me, remember?” Pri giggles. “All in good time. For now, watch Tommy. He’s been waiting for this for an awfully long time.”

“They’re not wrong,” Tommy shrugs. His voice is gravelly and deep, and, as Jon rolls his head to look at him, Tommy’s cheeks flush. “Can I?”

Jon groans, lifting his knees over Tommy’s thighs and spreading himself wide. “I’ve never wanted anything more,” he says, truthfully.

Tommy shakes his head, “you’re incredible,” and trails slick lines down Jon’s dick and across his balls, before he lets his finger slip down to tease at Jon’s perineum. 

Jon shivers, his entire body pushing down onto Tommy’s finger, begging, wanting, needing.

Lovett twists his fingers into Jon’s hair. “You’re so open for us.”

“I need you,” Jon nods, desperately. “_Please_.”

“I got you,” Tommy promises. He leans down, pressing a kiss to Jon’s hip as he slides a finger in slowly. “I got you, love.”

Jon shivers, his entire body opening under Tommy as if years haven’t passed since Jon’s been on this end of things. His body softens, like it’s always known that it’s been waiting for Tommy, waiting to be right here, waiting for this very moment. “Fuck,” he groans, “say that again.”

“I got you,” Tommy repeats for a third time, curling his finger and pushing deeper, “love.”

Jon shakes and whines, pressing down, using all of his weight to bear down on Tommy.

Lovett leans down, pressing a light kiss to Jon’s lips. “He feels amazing, doesn’t he?”

Jon nods, concentrating on every ounce of strength in Tommy’s fingers as he adds a second and spreads them slowly. “His _fingers_.”

“They’re pretty great,” Lovett agrees with a smirk. “Wait until you get to experience his dick.”

Jon groans. “They’re already so big. I feel _so full_.”

Tommy groans, his hips stuttering forward. Jon can feel the hot, hard length of him against Jon’s thigh. “God,” Tommy gasps, “you’re fucking obscene.”

“Me?” Jon snorts. “Just look at you, Tommy.”

Tommy shakes his head, curling his fingers and adding a third. “Look at _you_. You look like you were made to take my fingers.”

Jon cries into Lovett’s mouth, a mix of “_Tommy_” and _“_I _was, _all for you,” as he pushes down, wanting more, wanting everything Tommy will give him.

Tommy scissors his fingers, sliding them through the lube and Jon’s open hole. “You’re almost ready.”

Jon feels himself gape around Tommy, loose and, “more than ready.”

Tommy shakes his head, pushing forward for one more, long moment, before pulling this hand out. “God, I can’t wait to fuck you,” he murmurs, more a promise than a regret. He slides aside, tapping Elijah’s hip. “Ready, love?”

Jon groans and promises, “soon,” as he’s already reaching for Elijah.

Elijah settles between Jon’s thighs like he belongs there, like he’s always belonged there. Like, maybe, they were set on the path towards this moment when they met so many decades ago, long before they even knew that this was a possibility. Elijah smiles, lifting Jon’s thighs with so much gentleness that Jon’s certain he’s thinking the same thing. “Hi, love.”

Jon makes a soft noise in the back of his throat. “God, Elijah, I like the sound of that.”

Elijah tilts his head into the hands Jon trails over his temple. “Me too. I love you, Jon.”

“I love you too,” Jon whispers, lifting up to kiss him.

Elijah groans, pushing forward into him, his dick heavy and hot against Jon’s thigh. The groan turns into a gasp against Jon’s lips. “Lube me?”

Jon thinks, for a moment of panic, that Elijah means him. But then Tommy pushes forward, the tube already in his hand and a squirt of lube already in his palm. “Always.”

Elijah shivers into Tommy’s touch, his chest flushing and his hands shaking where they’re still resting on Jon’s thighs. Jon wants to make him feel like that. Jon never wants him to stop feeling like that.

“I wanna feel you,” Jon whispers. “_Please_.”

Elijah’s hips stutter and he pushes forward, letting Tommy’s fist guide him. “I’ve been waiting decades, love. You don’t have to ask me twice.”

Jon nods, leaning up to kiss Elijah as Tommy pushes him close. “Me too, fuck, _kiss me_.”

“Any time,” Elijah promises, leaning forward to kiss Jon. Tommy pushes him forward until he’s slipping deeper and deeper, bottoming out so deep in Jon that Jon’s absolutely certain Elijah’s lighting up every inch of him. “_Jon_.”

Tommy slides away, rolling into Lovett and pulling Lovett onto him with the last of the lube in his palm, but Jon doesn’t have eyes for anything but Elijah. The way Elijah’s cheeks flush when he pulls his hips back. The way Elijah’s stomach muscles flutter with the effort of keeping himself still, just the tip of his dick in Jon. The way Elijah moans, his entire body crying out as he pushes deep, deep, deeper, as deep as he can possibly go.

“God.” Elijah snaps his hips shallowly, dropping his forehead to Jon’s chest, beaded with sweat. “You feel- I- _Jon_.”

“More.” Jon lifts his hips, circling his ankles around Elijah’s hips and pulling him impossibly closer. He can feel Elijah everywhere. “_Please._”

Elijah nods, pulling his hips back and snapping them forward again, drawing deep, guttural noises out of both of them. Through his haze, Jon registers similar sounds coming from Lovett and Tommy and Emily, but they all bleed into one, twisting around Jon’s and Elijah’s and fitting themselves together as one.

Jon never knew how much he could want this.

Jon never knew he could feel like this, all-consumed and hazy and so wonderful.

“That’s it,” Jon groans, arching his hips up to meet Elijah’s rhythms. “I’ve never felt- I _love you_, Elijah.”

“Fuck.” Elijah lifts himself onto his hands, his arms shaking and strained on either side of Jon’s head. “So much. _Too_ much.”

Jon shakes his head, turning to kiss Elijah’s bicep. He reaches around Elijah’s shoulders, tugging him closer. “_More_.”

Elijah groans. He pulls out, so quickly that Jon gasps with the shock of it. Then he hangs there, so long they’re both shaking and panting into the space between them, before pushing back in, so agonizingly slowly that Jon feels tears at the corners of his eyes.

“Hey.” Elijah lifts a hand with effort, brushing his thumb under Jon’s eye. “Okay?”

Jon nods, desperate and choked. “So good, the most good, _Elijah, please_.”

“Yeah.” Elijah drops his head, pressing kisses to Jon’s collarbone and his neck and his jaw, everywhere he can reach, as he snaps his hips. “I’ve got you.”

Jon cries out, lifting his ankles even higher, pushing down around Elijah. “I’m close, fuck, Elijah, I’m so fucking close.”

“Me too,” Elijah groans out. “What do you need?”

Jon whines, deep in his throat, pushing upwards. “Touch _me_.”

Elijah reaches down, his fingers just brushing along Jon’s dick, loose and long and trembling.

Jon shakes his head, pulling Elijah’s head down. “_More_,” he begs into Elijah’s mouth.

Dan snorts, pushing his hand back under Jon’s dick, pumping against Elijah’s and twisting around them. He jerks them both, hard and fast, slick and wet.

“Fuck,” Jon tips his head back, groaning as he pushes into them. “Fuck, yeah, that’s it.”

Dan tightens his fist, tight against Elijah’s. “You’re so close, Jon. You’re so hard for us, you want us so much.”

Jon nods, desperately, tears at the corners of his eyes. “I do,” he gasps out. “I do- I love- I’m _so close._”

Elijah grins, thrusting into him, hard enough to push Jon’s body up the mattress. “Come for us, love.”

Jon grunts, feeling a rush of heat and warmth and so much love that his vision fuzzes and his ears go white. He doesn’t know how loud he is or how long he comes. All he knows is how good he feels, how surrounded he is, how loved he is.

Elijah groans, his hips stuttering deep as Jon tightens around him. “Fuck.”

Dan keeps his fist loose around Jon, working him through it, elongating it past any sense of time Jon has ever had. He lifts his free hand to rest on Elijah’s back. “You now, love.”

“Fuck,” Elijah groans, tipping forward, “Fuck, I’m gonna.”

“Wanna feel you,” Jon gasps, tightening his muscles amidst the haze, feeling the way Elijah jumps and grows and leaks inside him, wet and hard and- “Fuck, Elijah, yeah, that’s it. I can feel you _everywhere_.”

“Fuck.” Elijah’s hips stutter with aftershocks, his dick leaping in Jon. “You’re so much. I love you so much.”

Jon shakes his head, his world sliding back into focus as he runs his hand up and down Elija’s spine. “I love you, too.”

Elijah drops his head, his back heaving under Jon’s hand. “Fuck.”

“Yeah.” Jon turns his chin to press a soft kiss to Jon’s hair. “I’ve been thinking about this for so long. Nothing about you has disappointed.”

Elijah chuckles into his chest. “You’re everything I dreamed about, too.”

Jon takes a deep breath, feeling his muscles loosen into the mattress. “I’ve been trying,” he whispers into Elijah’s curls.

Elijah makes a soft noise, pressing closer, his body swaying a little over Jon’s.

Pri laughs, reaching out for Elijah’s elbow. “Come sleep, love,” she offers, gently, rolling him off of Jon and into her chest. Alyssa murmurs sleepily and wraps her arm around both of them. On their other side, Jon can see Tanya and Emily curled together, Emily watching Jon with hooded eyes and Tanya watching him with a hand on Emily’s wrist.

On Jon’s other side, Tommy’s pulling out of Lovett, his fingers sliding through the mess between Lovett’s thighs. Lovett groans, turning his head to smirk at Jon, “you’re the best aphrodisiac, Favreau.”

Jon snorts, stretching his own muscles, feeling them creak and pull. “I’m not sure that’s true, but-”

“It’s true,” Tommy groans, falling to Lovett’s side and pulling Lovett into the curve of his body. “Give us just a little more show, yeah?”

Jon frowns, “wha-?”

Dan slides his fingers under Jon’s chin. “Hi love.”

“Oh.” Jon grins, smiling up at him even as he feels his muscles weak and slow to respond. He trails his fingers over Dan’s thigh with little, barely there and definitely uncoordinated, touches. “You need taking care of?”

Dan grins, tracing up Jon’s jaw to stroke his temple. “I wouldn’t say no.”

Jon nods slowly and warns, “it’s not gonna be the best I can do,” as he wraps a loose fist around Dan, jerking slowly.

Dan shakes his head, his back arching, “still so _much_, Jon.”

The tiger on Dan’s chest stretches and arches its back. The trapeze artists on his side swing and jump. The image of Jon’s own fingers ripple on Dan’s hip.

Jon laughs. “Well, if you’re gonna be this easy,” and drops his head to lick at Dan’s tip. He tastes salty and strong, already leaking huge swaths across Jon’s tongue.

“Fuck,” Dan yelps. The tiger roars, opening its mouth and showing each of its teeth.

Elijah turns his head sleepily on Pri’s chest. “Oh, fuck that’s hot.”

Pri slides her head down Elijah’s chest, circling his softening dick. “Obscene. You’re all obscene. Can you tighten your lips a little, Jon? Dan can do the work.”

Jon groans, making an ‘o’ with his lips as Pri suggested.

Dan gasps, his hips stuttering into Jon’s mouth. “God, that’s _too much._”

Jon’s lips close around him just a little, loving the taste and feel of him as he slides in and out of Jon’s mouth. Filling him, taking him, making Jon his as much as he’s giving himself over. Dan’s hands tighten in his hair, tugging in the same rhythm as his hips, faster and harder and faster again.

Jon reaches up, tracing the tattoo of his hands, looking at them tighten under Jon’s own fingertip.

“Yours,” Dan gasps.

Jon shivers, feeling it in his entire body. His cheeks hollow, sucking inwards around Dan’s dick.

“I’m close,” Dan whines, his hips pushing deeper. “I’m so close.”

Jon nods, tapping Dan’s hip, tracing the tattoo as he drops his mouth lower, giving Dan move momentum to thrust closer.

Dan groans, his fingers fighting in Jon’s hair, “fuck _Jon_,” as he pushes in, as deep as he can, and comes down Jon’s throat.

Jon swallows, his throat working him over, caressing the head and taking everything he can, until Dan pushes him back. Jon grins up at him, resting his head on Dan’s thigh and breathing deeply.

“You’re so much, Jon,” Dan gasps. He strokes Jon’s hair, loosening his fingers and caressing his temple.

Jon nods, feeling warm and sleepy as he mouths at Dan’s thigh. His mind drifts between Dan’s fingers in his hair, Tommy’s caught breath behind him, and the even breathing of Emily and Tanya and Alyssa filling the wagon.

Pri grins, sliding down a little closer. “We have a pillow for you, if you can move?”

Jon nods slowly, his breath loose and wet. “I can, yeah,” he murmurs, leaning into her heavily as she pulls him up the bed.

Pri giggles, curling into his shoulder. He feels Dan shift behind him and Lovett and Tommy behind Dan. Pri kisses his collarbone. “You’re even better like this.”

Jon laughs softly, without opening his eyes. “I think I should feel offended, but I don’t have the energy.”

Elijah laughs and slides in-between Jon and Dan, curling into them both. “You definitely should be.”

Jon pulls him closer, desperate for the feel of him. “I don’t care much, as long as you stay?”

Dan reaches around Elijah to press his lips to Jon’s shoulder. “We’re not going anywhere. Ever.”

Jon grins, his lips curling against Elijah’s chest. “Me neither. Except,” he says around a yawn, “to sleep.”

Pri laughs, curling her hand around his hip and resting it on Jon’s stomach. “Sleep, love, we’ll be here in the morning.”

Jon nods, sleep already reaching in to pull him under. “Love you.”

“You too,” Elijah intones, the last thing Jon hears before he nods off.

***

"Stop moving," Pri sighs, her exasperation betrayed by the bounce in her voice. She steps closer, spreading Emily's thighs around her hips, and pulls Emily's chin upwards. "You don't wanna go back into the ring with a clown face, do you?"

"I resent that," Lovett calls, half-heartedly. He doesn't raise his head from where it's lulling against Jon's knee. "Would a clown face really be that bad?"

"On a trapeze artist?" Emily snorts. "Yes."

"Stop," Pri rolls her eyes, lifting her eyebrow pen, "moving."

Emily shakes her head. "Give a girl a makeup bag and it goes right to her head."

Pri raises an eyebrow and takes a step backwards. "Good luck doing it yourself, then."

"No." Emily snaps her hand out, catching Pri's wrist and pulling Pri into her chest. She lowers her mouth to Pri's. "You're doing an amazing job, love. Keep going."

Pri shakes her head, kissing Emily deeply. Emily's hand tightens on her lower back, tangling in the fabric of her costume. Pri groans, pushing even closer, her fingers sliding under the crotch of Emily's leotard.

"Fuck." Jon arches his hips as he watches two of Pri's fingers disappear and Emily throw her head back, her neck flushed and damp. "That's so fucking hot."

Lovett grins, straightening a little and turning in his spot between Jon's knees. He's dressed for the Ring, in an oversized black shirt and balloon pants. His mouth is painted red, his cheeks white, and his clown nose twitches as he presses his hand to the bulge in Jon's pants.

"God." Jon threads his fingers through Lovett's hair, careful to stay away from the face paint at his temples. "You're so fucking hot, too."

Lovett grins, his lips splitting and his extended smile spreading across half his face. "This does it for you?"

Jon shrugs. "You do it for me." And flicks his eyes to where Emily's thighs are raised, her knees shaking as she gasps. "And maybe clown makeup isn't the _worst_ idea."

Lovett's eyes light. "Well that's something to think about. For later."

"Or." Jon reaches down, wrapping his fingers around Lovett's and pulling his hand into Jon's pants. "For now."

"Kinky." Lovett tightens his hand around Jon's dick automatically like, in the past three days, he's measured and catalogued every inch of Jon. Like he knows Jon, already, as well as he knows all of them. Like Jon's an open book, his pages fluttering at just the hint of Lovett's hand. It’s surprised Jon every fucking time Lovett’s touched him over the past few days.

Lovett pumps his hand and Jon arches towards him, gasping. "Lovett."

"I like it," Lovett grins, doing it again. "I've been trying to get Dan to let me do this for him for _years_.”

There's a heavy sigh from the doorway. “I don’t have this particular fetish.”

“Don’t knock it,” Jon’s breath catches, “until you try it.”

“Maybe.” Dan shakes his head skeptically. He’s mostly dressed for the show, his vest hanging open over his chest and the top hat dangling from his fingers. “But, not right now. We don’t have time for any of this.”

Emily cries out, Pri’s name filling the canvas tent. Pri’s wrist moves rapidly, working her through it, and then she slides out. She settles Emily’s leotard back between her legs, patting the wet spot that the crowd won’t be able to see but Jon will know is there, before wiping her fingers on her makeup towel.

“Good thing I’m done then.” Emily sighs happily. She brushes her hair from her forehead and straightens her shoulders. “I was feeling a little tension about my first show back, but, I’m feeling better now. Hit me, Pri.”

Pri snorts, reaching for the eyebrow pen she’d dropped at Emily’s hip. “Glad to be of service. Maybe you can stay fucking still now.”

Dan snorts, sliding onto the table next to Jon. He pulls Jon’s chin towards him, fitting their mouths together as he reaches down to catch Lovett’s wrist. “We don’t have time for this either, I’m afraid.”

Lovett sighs, squeezing Jon three times, hard, and letting him go. He draws his hand out of Jon’s pants and wipes his fingers on his pants. “Something to keep for later.”

Jon groans, lifting his hips so he can rearrange himself. “Fuck. I look ridiculous.”

Dan shakes his head. “You look like ours.” He holds out the top hat, letting his fingers linger when they brush together this time. “Break a leg.”

***

“I always knew I belonged here.” Emily’s voice is gentle, her fingers soft in Jon’s hair as she cards her fingers through them. “Not _here _exactly, but, somewhere else. Certainly not in that giant mansion in Cincinnati that my parents called a house.”

Jon leans into her touch. He feels warm and slow, his dick still softening in the crook of his thigh and his ass feeling pleasantly sore and wet. “I wish I’d been so sure of myself.”

Emily shakes her head, her grin unwavering. “But then you might have joined some other circus, and we would have missed out on you.”

Jon tilts his head, feeling a smile tug at his own mouth. “And that would have been bad?”

“Asshole.” Emily laughs, her chest rising and falling with it. Jon’s transfixed by the way her breasts move, her nipples still hard and her skin still tinged pink from her neck all the way to the tops of her thighs, disappearing into the sheet pooled around her waist. “Anyway, I was just biding my time, waiting around for my life to begin. And then the Batty Brothers came to town, and I knew.”

Jon’s smile gentles. “Immediately?”

Emily nods, dropping her hand to caress down his chest. “I went with my daddy and my betrothed. I knew from the moment Dan walked on stage, _this _was what I’d been waiting for.”

“Your betrothed?”

Emily shrugs. “I’m sure he’s fine, probably married an even more eligible partner than I was. Anyway, I snuck out the next night. Wrote my mama a letter explaining why I had to go, and climbed out my window.”

Jon snorts. “Poisoning me makes more and more sense the longer I know you.”

“Right?” Emily grins at him, then over his shoulder at Tommy who’s snoring, face down, in his pillow. His back is bare, the muscles rippling with each breath. “I found Tommy at the river, showed him what I could do, and the rest was history.”

Jon shakes his head, pulling Emily into a kiss. “You’re incredible, you know that?”

“I do.” She giggles, throwing her thighs over his. She’s wet against him, still hot and open. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

Jon groans, spreading his hand on her back. “I want you.”

Emily nods, dipping her head down to kiss him. Her palms are strong on the sides of his face, her hair cascading around them both. “You can have me.”

“Actually.” Michael coughs, his face red from where he’s peeking around the door to Emily’s wagon. “You’ll have to wait. Dan’s calling an all-hands meeting.”

Jon frowns. “An all-hands?”

“Fuck.” Emily slides down to his calves. “We’ll be right there.”

Michael nods, “I’m gonna go find T and Lys,” and then he’s gone.

“An all-hands?” Jon repeats.

“Yeah.” She nods absently, already shrugging her shirt over her head and pulling on her pants. She tosses Jon’s at his chest and leans over Tommy to shake his shoulder. “It means he’s got something important to tell us.”

“Such as?” Jon frowns, catching his pants and lifting his hips to pull them up.

“If you ask less questions,” Emily frowns, stepping towards the door, “we’ll find out sooner.”

Jon frowns, but Emily doesn’t say anything else as they hurry across the camp. Elijah’s ducking into the cook tent ahead of them, and he holds the flap open for them to duck in. His hand lingers on Jon’s shoulder, half a reassuring smile on his face as he nods towards an empty table. Tommy climbs onto the top with them, yawning and reaching for Jon’s hand, squeezing reassuringly.

“Everyone here?” Dan frowns, looking around and counting them with his eyes. Michael slides in last, letting the flap close with a loud thump. He gives Dan a thumbs up and Dan nods. “Okay, good. Thank you all for gathering, I know you have better things to do on our last night in Long Island.”

Lovett makes an affirmative noise. He has a stack of cards in his hands and is shuffling them rapidly, nervous or preparatory or both, Jon’s not sure.

“In your case, I might be doing you a blessing,” Dan raises an eyebrow. Alyssa snorts, leaning into Lovett’s side and touching his arm soothingly. “Besides this won’t take long.”

“Then get on with it.” Emily crosses her legs, leaning into Tanya and putting a noted hand high on her thigh. “We all have better things to be doing.”

Dan shakes his head. “Anyway, you all know that I’ve been gone for long stretches over the past few months?”

Tommy frowns, his hand tightening in Jon’s. “Helping the boss?”

Dan nods. “That’s actually what this is about. The boss is selling the Batty Brothers.”

Elijah’s back straightens, his entire body freezing. Tanya lets out a surprised sound. Alyssa drops her head, but not before Jon can see how deep her frown is.

“I have been assured that nothing will change,” Dan holds up his palms. “He is impressed by our skills and is very motivated to keep us afloat.”

Tommy’s hand is clammy in Jon’s. “So things have been as bad as we feared?”

Dan swallows, his throat rippling. There’s a new tattoo on the side of his neck that Jon can’t quite make out. “It’s hard to make money on leisure activities during a Depression. We’ve been lucky to have our jobs as long as we have.”

“And this-“ Tanya’s face twists. “This new backer, he has money?”

Dan nods. “Enough to keep us going for a few years, yeah.”

Alyssa shakes her head, leaning against Lovett’s shoulder. Her voice is low and dark as she says, “I don’t have a good feeling about this.”

Dan sighs, pushing his hands into his pockets. “I wish we had a choice. He’s based out of Boston and we’ll be able to meet him after our second show. If anyone can come up with an alternative before then-“ Dan shrugs his shoulders helplessly. “Please let me know.”

***

“Thank you.” Jon takes a ticket from a little boy and tears it in half. “Please, enjoy the show.”

The boy nods, looking up at Jon with wide eyes. “Are you in the show, mister?”

Jon nods with a small laugh. “I am, yeah.”

“Oh.” The boy breaks out into a grin, his hand tightening in his father’s hand. “What do you do?”

Jon lets himself grin. “I run the show.”

“Oh.” The boy tilts his head. “That’s not a trick.”

Jon shrugs. “I guess not, but, it’s a pretty fun job.”

The boy frowns, and doesn’t fight when his father pulls him into the tent. Jon sighs, turning back to his bucket of tickets. He’s felt on edge - they’ve all felt on edge - since Dan’s announcement their last night in Long Island. Between tear down and set-up here in Boston, though, he hasn’t had much time to sort through the heavy cloud that’s fallen over the troupe. He’d overheard Dan and Lovett discussing money in a detail that Jon can’t possibly understand, in tones full of careful hope that Jon does understand, that first night. But Jon had woken up early this morning as the wagon had bumped over a pothole outside of Boston, to find Alyssa sitting up in bed next to him, her hands folded in her lap and her eyes milky and far away.

Jon shakes his head, pushing the thoughts away and reaching for the next ticket. “Welcome to the greatest show on earth,” he grins, pasting it on with every ounce of power he possesses.

“Jonathan.” A voice says behind him. Deep and familiar.

Jon turns, slowly. He’s standing there, in a brown pin-stripe suit perfectly tailored. He eyes Jon up and down, taking in every patch and mended scrap of thread.

“Well.” His mouth twists. “This is not what I expected to find.”

Jon takes a deep breath. He doesn’t step closer. “Father.”

***


	13. Boston

**Boston, 1934**

“Jonathan.” A voice says behind him. Deep and familiar.

Jon turns, slowly. He’s standing there, in a perfectly tailored brown pin-stripe suit. He eyes Jon up and down, taking in every patch and mended scrap of thread in his three-piece MC costume.

“Well.” His mouth twists. “This is not what I expected to find.”

Jon takes a deep breath. He doesn’t step closer. “Father.”

His father’s mouth twists upwards, a smirk tugging at the edges of his mouth. His voice is smooth and easy, no surprise sliding in alongside the condescension. “Did you forget me so easily?”

Jon swallows. His power fizzles along his arms, uselessly. He wants to call out, scream _help _or _fire_ or something, anything, to help him slip away, into the crowd, back into the obscurity he’s gotten so used to. “Of course not. I just didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Oh, I’m not here for your circus.” He chuckles, his mouth twisting around the last word like it’s dusty in his mouth. His fingers pick at a piece of lint on the brim of his fashionable fedora hat, flicking it to the ground with disgust. “I’m here for you.”

Jon’s mind stops, white noise echoing through his ears. This is the moment he’d wanted so much in those first few weeks, when the poison of his father’s values was still sliding through his veins, so much more deadly and lingering than the poison in Emily’s syringe. It’s the moment Jon’s been dreading since Lovett kissed him in New Orleans, his lips soft and warm and tasting like gin and a promise for something more, something larger than Jon, something larger even than Favreau Industries and the small empire his father has built.

When Jon had played this through, lying awake in his wagon on long and bumpy trips in Tennessee and Alabama and Virginia, he could never see it quite through to its natural conclusions. Sometimes, he’d imagined himself throwing wine or dirt or his father’s own vitriol back into his face. But just as often, he’d imagine the thud in his chest, the warmth of family shimmering down his body, three decades of programming switching back on at just the sight of his father.

Jon had never expected to feel pity. His father looks so small, standing in front of Jon with his fingers twisting around a hat that cost more than the Batty Brothers makes in three sold out nights. His shoulders are drawn inwards, his shirt gaping and wrinkled despite the work Jon knows the maids must have done that very morning, and he flinches in fear and disgust every time an attendee passes too close to him. 

Jon’s chest aches with the realization that his father isn’t larger than life. He’s not even larger than Jon.

“I’m sorry you came all this way.” Jon shrugs apologetically. “I know how much you hate a wasted trip.”

His father’s mouth twists. “I don’t know about that.”

“I do.” Jon shakes his head, sadly. There’s no hesitation in his voice or in his mind. “I’m sorry I couldn’t ever be the man you wanted me to be, but this is where I belong. Tell your friends I ran away to join a cult or that my ship was tragically wrecked at sea, I don’t care. Use me, one last time, because it will be your last.”

His father smiles, a smile Jon’s seen dozens of times in boardrooms across the Eastern Seaboard, a smile he always gives the moment before he lays down a trump card. Jon braces himself for it, raising his walls and planting his feet against whatever onslaught of _your mother needs you_ and _your brother has been building our empire wonderfully in your place _and _I raised you, I know who you are_ his father is about to toss his way.

His father shrugs, looking up and catching Jon’s eyes, the same dark, fathomless brown that Jon’s are. “I’m very sorry to hear that. I’m sure Dan - that is his name, isn’t it? The fellow in the top hat taking tickets earlier - is worth it. And Emily - not the best trapeze artist, is she? I was sorry to see her fall, I would have thought with that level of unnatural flexibility and agility she’d do better, but, alas, you never have had good taste - would miss you terribly. I understand wanting to protect them against who you are.”

Cold rushes down Jon’s spine in waves, lifting his shoulders and freezing them in place.

“It would be an awful shame if their secrets were to spill out into the press, wouldn’t it?” His father shrugs, his face smoothing in the picture of sympathy. “I’m sure there are plenty of people out there who would salivate over a man who could, and I’m just hypothesizing here, see the future or, perhaps, lift the weight of a Model T. The US military, as one example. Could you protect them, Jon?”

Jon grits his teeth. He feels like he’s a foot above himself, watching this scene play out inevitably, helpless to do anything to stop it. “What do you want from me?”

“Now, now.” His father clucks his tongue. “I’m just a father, missing his boy.”

Jon closes his eyes. Of course. Of _course _that’s what he wants. Not Jon, never Jon. But Jon’s power and the perfect, familial unit Jon’s disappearance had disrupted. When Jon opens them again, he’s seeing his father clearly for the first time in his life, but there’s still nothing he can do but offer a safety net to the people he loves. “And if I come with you?”

His father spreads his hands, palms up. The bowler hat is dangling from his left middle finger. “Then the papers don’t have any need to know what we know, hmm? Live and let live, I always say.”

Jon’s taking a step forward before he knows he’s moving. “I’ll go with you.”

“That’s a good boy.” His father clamps his fingers around the back of Jon’s neck. When Jon was younger, he thought the gesture was one of warmth and pride. Now, he sees it for what it is: an outside and obvious reminder of his father’s power and control. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Jon doesn’t blink. He leaves the part of his soul that was floating above them where he was standing, watching over the Batty Brothers and the near-perfect life he almost got to live. The rest of his body falls into familiar step with his father’s, heavy and thick, like he’s walking a gang plank of his own making.

***

Jon’s room is exactly how he’d left it, all those months ago when he’d packed a suitcase for Dallas and had thought he’d be back a few days later, half a million dollars and a few orgasms richer. He runs his fingers over his drawer of underthings still hanging slightly open, a thick layer of dust covering the bleached-clean cotton. Not a single one has been mended. He never wore them enough to need it.

Jon pulls his hands back, the dust and the sterility burning his fingers worse than anything Pri’s ever blown his way. Before dinner, he’d changed into one of his old suits, too thin in the shoulders and too baggy in the thighs, and he reaches up to undo the buttons on his jacket and vest with a relieved sigh. If his father thinks that Jon can slip into his old life the way he can slip into an old suit, then Jon can play along for as long as he needs to. At least until the Batty Brothers have left Boston, and Jon, long, long behind.

Jon’s heard thuds so hard that it forces him backwards, stumbling until his knees hitting the edge of the bed. He sits, hard, bouncing at how soft and full the mattress is. As much as his heart leaps at the idea, he doesn’t want them to look for him. He doesn’t want to imagine the look on Pri’s face when he failed to meet his cues in the Ring that night or the way they must have searched for him, splitting up to check each of their wagons and the cook tent. He doesn’t want to guess at who it was - Emily’s face swims in front of his eyes, unhelpfully - who first suggested that he ran. He doesn’t want to think about the betrayal Tanya would have felt, the way Tommy would have cracked his knuckles and hit his own hand rather than wrecking any of their wagons, the guilt on Alyssa’s face as she whispered “this is what I was afraid of.”

All that matters is that they’re safe. That their powers are their secrets to keep and that, once they’ve met this new benefactor and secured his money, that they can leave this place behind.

Maybe they can tour the midwest. Tommy would like Chicago, Jon thinks. Or maybe even further, to Colorado or Utah or California. The elephants would like the Colorado river rapids. Pri would like the cliff diving.

They’ll learn to live again. They’ll bury their grief and self-recrimination in each other. They’ll bond over their hatred of him and then, with time, they’ll forget about him.

Jon’s absolutely sure that they’ll forget about him, but he’ll never forget about them. He has Pri’s fire coursing through his veins, Tommy’s strength in the calluses on his fingers and the new muscles in his shoulders, Michael’s soft love flushing across his skin, Lovett’s worldview shining through his eyes, and Dan’s leadership as a foundation to keep him steady and sure. Jon knows who he is now. He is theirs and they are his, and even if he never sees them again, he will feel them in every choice he makes and every step he takes until his dying day.

But it’ll be worth it. 

Jon may have to live out his days here. He may have to sit through awkward family dinners every night, with his mother’s eyes soft and understanding on his, a new awareness flashing between them. He may have to smile at Andy and watch him climb the ladder that was once meant for Jon, and he may have to hold his nephew and try to give him all the choices Jon, himself, never had. He may have to smile and make pretty for his father and his father’s clients, he may have to use his power for all the wrong reasons and he may have to make peace with that.

He may have to be content with that half life and the memory of one so much fulled, but he won’t complain, not as long as they’re safe-

Jon lies back, his shirt unbuttoned to his belly-button and his pants undone, and stares up at the ceiling.

He may have to pretend for the rest of his life that he isn’t madly, deeply, impossibly in love with everything his father hates, but, he’ll know that he is.

He’ll know and they’ll be safe and it’ll be worth every moment.

***

Jon wakes with the sunrise. The townhouse is creaking with the sounds of Boston waking up, of paperboys on their routes outside his window and women taking their month’s yield to the market around the corner. If he strains, he can even hear the soft sounds of the staff three floors below him, the cooks rising to prepare his father’s breakfast and the maids already halfway through their pre-dawn dusting.

Jon rolls out of bed, reaching for his patched MC pants and one of the perfectly-tailed shirts still hanging in his childhood closet. It pulls at his arms and he doesn’t do the top three buttons before he slides silently out of his room. He’s grateful for all the lessons Emily and Dan and Tommy have taught him as he tiptoes down the first step, remembering to skip the creaky third step that Jon remembers from all the times he snuck down to get cookies and cake when he was a boy.

“Mr. Jon.” The head cook meets him at the bottom of the stairs. “It is good to see you home, sir.”

Jon jumps, but forces his face into a smile that he hopes is more grateful than guilty. “Thank you, Gertrude. It is nice to see you as well. How has your family been?”

Her face flushes with happiness that he’s remembered. “They’re wonderful, thank you. My daughter, Abigail, just had a baby. An adorable, healthy baby boy.”

Jon grins, a real smile that pushes at his cheeks. “That’s wonderful. Please extend my well wishes.”

“Of course, sir.” Gertrude turns, her shoulders loose and warm, to pour a cup of coffee for him. “Just the way you like it.”

Jon nods, taking the cup and saucer she hands him. He barely remembers how he used to take his coffee when he had options, and he instantly misses the milk-like powder the circus keeps in bulk. “Thank you, Gertrude, I appreciate you.”

She flushes, curtseying for him. “Thank you, sir. I really am glad that you’re back.”

“Thank you.” Jon swallows, taking a sip of his coffee. A sugar cube and a splash of milk hit his tongue, toning down the caffeine and sliding too easily down his throat. “I’ll be in the study if anyone needs me.”

She nods, already turning back to the kitchen island. “Breakfast will be ready at seven. Your father has guests arriving then.”

Jon frowns. “Guests?”

She nods again as she rolls up her sleeves and starts kneading a ball of bread dough on the counter. “Mr. Franzen has been dining with your father most mornings since you’ve been gone.”

Jon frowns. The name sounds familiar, just outside of Jon’s memory but niggling against it like-

Jon shakes it out of his head. He smiles at Gertrude. “I will be in the dining room before seven,” he promises, as he ducks around the corner.

He wasn’t exactly lying when he said he’d be in the sitting room. If he’s missed anything in this house, it’s the shelves upon shelves of books lining the room, most of them untouched and gathering dust for decades. Jon runs his fingers over the spines, blues and reds and golds offering innumerable secrets, histories of things Jon had never thought to look for and answers to questions Jon had never thought to ask. Lovett would love this room. Lovett would, Jon thinks with a pinch that burns and smolders in the base of his spine, love to get his hands on even one shelf’s worth of books in this room.

Jon takes a careful sip of his coffee, wishing again that it was darker and more bitter on his tongue, and turns to the next shelf. He stops, though, halfway through the turn, and pauses. His father’s grand oak desk has been a fixture of this room for as long as Jon can remember, thick and austere and so clean and organized as to look untouched. Jon’s earliest memories are of his father sitting behind it, his glasses low on his nose, grumbling about numbers and lawyers while Jon, himself, leaned into his mother’s side on the chaise lounge while she read to him. Jon had always been so much more interested in her fantastical stories about far away places than he was in any business sense his father tried to beat into him.

Now, though, Jon pauses. There’s a document sitting pristinely in the middle of the desk, a slim set of papers with _The Batty Brothers Circus_ written in clear, dark ink at the top.

Jon picks up the top page, his eyes skipping over the legal language and settling on a few important phrases.

_Mr. Thomas M. Bratty hereby sells The Batty Brothers Circus and all its assets to Mr. Singh B. Franzen._

_All assets include the full financial weight of the Batty Brothers Circus, the wagons and tents therein, the animals, and the people under the Batty Brothers’ employ._

_Upon signature, all assets will be under the employ of Mr. Singh B. Franzen, to do with as he chooses_.

_All parties, including Mr. Thomas M. Batty, Mr. Singh B. Franzen, and their intermediary Mr. Mark H. Favreau agree to keep the details of this deal secret and private._

Jon’s fist crumples around the pages. 

“Jonathan.” His father’s voice filters through the pounding of his heart and the heat sizzling across his skin. “You’re up, my boy, very good.”

Jon turns, slowly, the papers still clutched in his hand. “Good morning, father. I have a few questions for you.”

“I thought you might.” His father chuckles, then steps aside and motions to a man behind him. “There’s someone here I’d like you to meet. Singh Franzen, this is my son, Jonathan Favreau.”

Mr. Franzen is tall and thin, the length of him stretching under the tailored pants of his pinstriped suit and beyond the sleeves of his salmon-colored button-up. Jon flashes back, to a warm spring day so many decades ago. The same man, his hair a little darker and his smile a little lighter, handing Jon a coin and a few minutes of freedom. Just enough time to meet Elijah and buy him a turkey leg and set Jon on the path he only now realizes he’s been on for every moment of every day between that moment and this one. Jon owes Mr. Franzen everything and nothing, all at once.

Mr. Franzen steps forward, his hand outstretched. “Jonathan, I have been waiting so long to meet you again. Your father has told me so much about you, you’re a very special man.”

Jon extends his free hand, trembling as Mr. Franzen’s hand touches his. Sparks fly between them, the sizzle of Jon’s power meeting the wall of familiarity he’s gotten so used to. “It’s nice to meet you too, Mr. Franzen.”

Mr. Franzen turns his head, his grin spreading across his face. The early morning sun filters in, lighting up the twist of his grin across his hidden cheek. The skin is crossed in burns and blisters, obviously healed by the best doctors and the length of years, but the scars still stretching from temple to jaw.

Jon stumbles backwards, clutching the first page of the contract to his chest as his knees hit the desk.

“It is ghastly, isn’t it?” Mr. Franzen shrugs, easily. “It was so long ago, sometimes I forget that it can surprise people.”

Jon shakes his head, his mouth dry.

“I apologize for my son.” Jon’s father glares daggers at Jon as he tightens his finger around Mr. Franzen’s elbow. “Let’s go on into the dining room for breakfast. I’m sure Jonathan will have recovered himself enough to apologize by the time the eggs have been served.”

Jon doesn’t nod as he watches them go, his heart beating in his chest.

He can’t think about anything, except-

They’re not safe.

Nothing Jon can do will ever ensure that they’re safe.

Damn the newspapers, damn his father’s wrath, damn whatever might come if the world finds out about them, Jon needs to find a way to warn them.

***

“I’ll have-”

“He’ll have a bourbon on the rocks,” his father interrupts, crossing his hands over his menu and smiling up at their waiter.

Jon drops his menu to the table, trying not to think about the gimlet or the cosmo he’d been eyeing. If all goes as planned, he won’t be drinking more than a sip or two anyway. “Thank you, father.”

“We’re celebrating.” His father crosses his legs, leaning forward on the table and glancing at his watch. “The paperwork has been signed, and we are all very, very rich men.”

Singh Franzen raises his glass. “Without your work, Favreau, none of this would have happened. Cheers to militaries with deep pockets and Swiss bank accounts.”

Jon swirls his drink, his heart rising high in his throat as he feels the edge clank with theirs. It sounds like a death knell. 

He doesn’t take a sip.

His father’s eyes narrow. “This is a celebration, Jonathan. You should be drinking like an elephant.”

His mouth twists around the last word, emphasizing the last syllable. Jon gets it. He honestly doesn’t know how he spent three decades not getting it.

“Of course.” Jon pushes his chair back as casually as he can with how badly his knees are trembling. “I need to use the restroom. But then, I promise, all celebration here.”

He pastes on his best smile, but they’ve already turned their attention away from him and towards the cheese menu. Jon breathes easier, glancing around for the restroom sign. It’s in the back, hidden behind a dozen tables and a tall privacy wall. Jon forces himself to walk slowly, smiling his best _I’m not doing anything, forget me_ smile at the diners as he passes. They watch him blankly, the evidence of his power reflected back at him in their eyes and mouths, and Jon pushes down any regret as he ducks behind the wall and takes a deep breath.

“Can I help you, sir?”

Jon looks up, his hand at the base of his neck, fiddling with the top buttons of his shirt. He gets them undone and takes a deep breath, feeling his power still sizzling across his lips as he smiles easily. “Yes, actually. I’m looking for another way out of here? That woman over there-” He juts his chin into the dining room, in the general direction of a table of well-dressed women he’d passed. “You know how it goes.”

Jon pastes on a grimace, holding out his hand. The waiter takes it, his fingers curling around the bill Jon has folded into his palm. “There’s a service door in the kitchen.”

“Perfect.” Jon’s head sways with the level of power simmering over his skin. “If you could find it in you to forget that you ever saw me?”

“Of course, sir.” The waiter’s eyes flick down the bill, widening comically at the denomination, before sliding it further into his pocket. He nods his head. “Follow me.”

The kitchen is hot and loud and crowded. Jon walks quickly past a pot of simmering seafood stew, keeping his head down so that no one will recognize him or will be able to identify him to his father once he inevitably realizes that Jon is missing. Jon watches the waiter’s ankles in front of him, mirroring his steady and unremarkable pace. The back of Jon’s neck is stinging with heat, his eyes watering with spiced steam, and his heart pounding with adrenaline as the waiter opens the back door with a practiced and knowing smile, “have a good evening, sir, please come again,” and Jon stumbles out into an alleyway.

It stinks even worse out here, late afternoon humidity sliding into overflowing piles of food waste and filling the small space between the buildings. Jon coughs, pinching his nose as he jogs out of the alleyway. He knows how he must look - the top buttons of his shirt undone, his new bowler hat sitting too high on his head, his vest sticking to his circus muscles in all the wrong ways. 

He has a pocket full of money, though, and a smile that can move mountains, so when he raises his hand the first available taxi pulls up to the curb and rolls down its window. “Where to, sir?”

“The docks,” Jon says, climbing into the backseat without waiting for an affirmative. “The Batty Brothers Circus.”

“That route is crowded today,” the driver warns. “It’ll cost you.”

“That’s okay.” Jon nods him ahead, before sinking back into his seat and letting himself breathe deeply. “It’s worth it.”

***

The midway is quiet when Jon tumbles out of his taxi an interminable half an hour later. He can hear gasps of surprise from within the Big Top, the sound of three thousand people holding their collective breaths. Jon’s heart skips a beat, imagining the rings of fire Pri might be making or the two tigers Tommy might be lifting over his shoulders. Every instinct in Jon is pushing him towards a fold in the canvas, to peer in, just for a moment, to convince himself that they’re there and safe and that their powers are still intact.

He forces himself to walk the other way, though. Past the rows of wagons on the midway, including the one painted with Alyssa’s crystal ball, and towards the one place Jon knows he’ll be able to find someone not in the ring.

Jon slows his pace just outside the medical tent and pauses in the doorway. Michael is bent over the middle medical cot, his hair unkempt in the back and his head shaking affectionately as he lifts Pri’s knee to slip gauze under her thigh. Jon gets a flashback so heavy that he stumbles back a step, the image blurring with the months that have passed since the first time he saw them like this. He’d been so young and naive, then. Now, though, his hands are strong and calloused. Now, he knows his place.

He takes a step forward, clearing his throat. “You’ve really gotta stop hurting yourself _before_ you get into the Ring.”

Pri jumps, her knee sliding out of Michael’s hands and her elbows flying back to catch herself before she can fall off the cot. “_Jon_.”

Michael turns, his eyes shading over and his mouth twisting into a carefully neutral line.

Jon holds up his hands. “I don’t have time to explain, and I know what it looked like when I disappeared.”

“Like the moment we got back to Boston, you ran back to the life you’ve never actually left behind?” Michael scoffs, turning his chin away. “Yeah, we got it. We can’t compete with money and power, we’re well aware.”

Jon shakes his head, keeping his palms raised. He lets every bit of his power sink back into his skin, lying dormant and cold, pushing every bit of his own sincerity into his voice. “That’s not it. I left to save you.”

Pri frowns. Her face is flushed, her knee swollen under her trembling fingers. Her voice is soft and lost as she asks, “how?”

“My father.” Jon’s mouth twists, his voice sliding angrily over his name. “He blackmailed me. He- He knows about us, all of us.”

Michael’s back catches. “He cares an awful lot about your sex life. If he was going to-”

“Not-” Jon interrupts, his voice breaking. He shakes his head. “Not about how much I love you, although, he might have some idea once he figures out how I escaped from him. He knows about what we can do.”

Pri freezes, every muscle in her body going stiff.

“He’s behind all of this.” Jon closes his eyes for a long moment, then opens them to look at Pri. She looks so beautiful, even with her skin glowing with the effort of holding her tension back, and Jon aches to reach out for her as he nods, slowly. “He’s been working with Singh Franzen.”

Pri gasps, betrayal and fear sliding across her face in equal measures.

“He did survive,” Jon says, softly, crossing to her and sitting on the cot next to hers. He reaches his hand out, letting it dangle in the heavy space between their chests. “He’s one of my father’s oldest associates. I knew him, when I was very little, but I didn’t put it together until I saw him this morning. You really did a number on him, Pri.”

She smiles a little, her hand reaching out and hovering above Jon’s. “He deserved it.”

“He did,” Jon says, letting himself smile, a little bit of hope twisting at the corner of his mouth. “He deserves even worse, now.”

Michael frowns, his eyes narrowed on the space between their fingers. “How do we know you’re not working for them?”

“You don’t.” Jon swallows, turning to look at him. Michael’s eyes are dark and fathomless. Jon has always wanted to drown in them and, finally, he lets himself. “But I love you, so fucking much, and I hope that’s enough to at least get you to listen to my plan.”

Pri glances at Michael, her chin tilted desperately, begging and lost. Michael nods, slowly, just the smallest twitch of his jaw.

Pri lowers her hand to Jon’s. “We’re listening.”

***

“This is an insane plan.” Tommy grunts as he looks up at the rope hanging from the large alarm bell over their heads.

Jon leans against the wooden railing, looking down at the two small fire trucks the city of Boston has spared to watch over the circus grounds. “If you have another one, I’m all ears.”

Tommy shakes his head. “You didn’t exactly give us a lot of time to think of one.”

“I did the best I could.” Jon frowns at him. “I got away as quickly as I could, you have to believe me.”

“Hey.” Tommy reaches for Jon’s wrist. He rubs his thumb over Jon’s pressure point, where his heart is beating rapidly. “I know you did. I believe you.”

Jon shakes his head, looking out over the grounds. The Batty Brothers has only been his home for a few months, but it’s the most home he’s ever had. He’s raised that Big Top with his bare hands. His wagon was the only space that’s ever truly been his and, even with its rickety bed and its splintered floor and the sides he and Alyssa had painted themselves, it’s his and his alone. 

Jon had found himself here. _Jon,_ the Jon he wants to be, and in finding himself he’s found the capacity to love. He’d listened to someone, _really_ listened for the first time, when he’d first heard Lovett sing about Hoovervilles in the speakeasy tent. He’d watched Pri strive to become more than herself, over and over again, balanced precariously on top of the elephants in the menagerie tent. He’d learned fearlessness from Tanya under the Big Top and he’d known fear for Emily in the dark of her wagon. He’d felt the power of softness under Michael’s fingers in the medical tent. He’d risen to expectations so much higher than he ever knew he could have for himself under Dan’s watchful eyes in the practice tent. 

Tommy steps up behind him, pressing his chest to Jon’s back and bracketing Jon’s arms with his. He kisses the side of Jon’s neck. “I’m going to miss it.”

Jon shakes his head, whispering, broken, “_Tommy_.” He leans into Tommy’s arm, resting his forehead on Tommy’s bicep, weak with relief at his touch. “I’m so sorry.”

“For what?” Tommy whispers, his breath hot and gentle on Jon’s ear.

_For everything_, Jon chokes, his mind skittering over his thoughts. He closes his eyes. “Last night, when I- Did you really think I’d left you?”

Tommy swallows, his chest trembling against Jon’s back. “Jon.”

“Tell me the truth.” Jon twists his fingers with Tommy’s on the railing, his nails digging in, hard. “_Please_.”

Tommy sighs. “We couldn’t find you, Jon. You have to understand, we- We were so worried about you, but, our hearts were breaking and it seemed like the most likely answer.”

“I’m so sorry,” Jon breathes into Tommy’s arm. “I’m so sorry I made you question that. I thought I was saving you.”

Tommy tenses, lifting his head so he can look at the side of Jon’s. “We’re your family, Jon. We do things together. From here on out-”

Jon turns, leaning back against the railing and resting his hand on Tommy’s cheek. “I promise. I’m here, I’m with you.”

Tommy shakes his head, “I’m such a fool for loving you,” and drops his chin.

Jon grins into his mouth, “then we’re all fools,” and kisses him. Tommy tastes like sweat from the first half of the show and adrenaline from what they’re about to do. He has dark rings under his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept a wink the night before either. He leans into Jon like he can drown in him and like, maybe, it would be worth it.

Jon arches into him, kissing him until there’s a cough from below them. Then he turns, catching himself on the railing and gazing down at Emily below them. Her arms are crossed across her sparkling costume and she’s tapping her foot against the dirt. “Oh, now you’re paying attention.”

Jon grins down at her. “End of the world, Em.”

She rolls her eyes. “Not if we have anything to say about it. Dan’s about to close the show.”

Tommy squeezes Jon’s shoulder, peering around him to smirk at Emily. “We’re ready.”

She shakes her head, “you don’t look it,” but backs away. “I better see you at the meeting point, you hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jon calls, giving her a soldier’s salute.

She snorts, blowing him an exaggerated kiss as she jogs away. Jon watches her go for a long time, his eyes scanning the grounds as attendees start streaming out of the Big Top. On the other side of the tent, Jon can just make out the trail of menagerie wagons Elijah packed full of elephants and zebras and camels while all focus was on the show inside. They’re as small as ants, inconspicuous and unremarkable, as they caravan up the hill out of town.

Somewhere below them, Singh Franzen is waiting for them with a signed contract and a Swiss bank account filled with coins and the US military waiting to test them and use them. The cost of a circus. The cost of their freedom and their livelihood.

Jon takes a deep breath. “This just might work.”

Tommy snorts. “It better fucking work.”

“It will.” Jon nods, definitively. From across the grounds, he sees Dan leaving the back door of the Big Top. He catches Jon’s eyes and gives a thumbs up. Jon takes a breath and turns back to Tommy. “Time.”

Tommy nods. He jumps to reach the end of the rope and pulls, hard. His muscles bunch and pull with the effort as the emergency bell swings, ringing out its warning.

Jon covers his ears, cowering against the burst of sound. Below him, the straggling circus goers scream and start to run.

Tommy rings the bell three more times.

Jon watches until the grounds are nearly empty and then he stands. He takes one last look around the grounds, his ears ringing and his knees weak. He raises his right hand, then hesitates. “This is insane. We’re destroying our _home_.”

“No we’re not.” Tommy reaches out for Jon’s free hand, squeezing tightly. “Home isn’t a place, it never was.”

Jon swallows, squeezing back.

He raises his right hand, giving Pri the signal, and then he runs, tugging Tommy down the steps and across the grounds, away from the blaze.

***

“It’s actually kinda beautiful,” Pri muses from where she’s sitting high above Boston. Her knees are drawn into her chest and her head is tilted towards the city, where they can still see the circus burning a bright orange and yellow against the night sky and the ocean beyond it. “Isn’t it?”

“You’re sick.” Lovett shakes his head, sliding down next to her. “But kind of.”

Pri hits his shoulder. “Then you’re sick too.”

Lovett shrugs, pulling her into his chest. “I’ve never argued with that.”

“You’re both idiots,” Emily says, fondly. She kneels down on the picnic blanket they’ve spread full of bread and cheese and the last of the beans they rescued before the cook tent went up in flames. “Come eat something.”

Lovett turns, his eyes lighting at the food. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

Emily laughs, “I figured,” and hands him a bowl of beans. “Eat up, we have a long road ahead of us tomorrow.”

“Kinda seems like we have a little down time tomorrow, actually,” Lovett shrugs around a mouthful of bread.

Emily shoves at him until he falls over, leaning into her lap as they both laugh.

Jon snorts, shaking his head from where he’s leaning against the closest tree. He’s turning his eyes back to the flames licking the shoreline, when he feels a small hand slip into his. He looks down, smiling. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Alyssa squeezes his hand, leaning into his shoulder. “Come eat something.”

“In a minute.” Jon turns to kiss the top of her head. “Watch with me?”

Alyssa nods. She breathes into the cotton of the shirt he’d changed into immediately. He never wants to see a three-piece suit again, if he has the choice. Which, he realizes with a start, he does now. He gets to be his own man, in every way that has ever mattered. He gets to be the man they want him to be, for them, with them.

Jon turns back to Alyssa, not able to keep the grin off of his mouth. “I’m going to bring fire down upon us all, huh?”

“The cards never lie,” Alyssa shrugs. “I just don’t always know in what way they mean. Sometimes, fire can save us.”

Jon swallows. “And is that what I’ve done? Saved us?”

“Yes,” she says, without hesitation. She tugs on his hand, wrapping her free hand around his elbow. “Come eat something, please?”

Jon nods, letting her pull him towards the picnic blanket. Lovett’s still sitting half in Emily’s lap, Tanya leaning against them both with a grin on her lips. Pri’s sitting on Elijah’s thighs, a slice of bread halfway to her mouth as she keeps an eye on the fire. Micheal’s kneeling over the blanket, ripping off a piece of bread for Tommy, who looks up when Jon and Alyssa step into the circle. He smiles at Jon, warm and soft, and his voice echoes through Jon’s head. 

_Home_. Jon grins back at him. _This is home_.

Pri turns back to the group, blinking the fire out of her eyes. “What do we do now?”

Dan pats the bag in his lap, full to bursting with the money they’d made in DC what feels like a lifetime ago. “We start again.” Dan smiles, a real, true smile that stretches across his cheeks and into the brilliant blue of his eyes. “On our own, this time. No one owns us. We’re our own people. Does that sound okay?”

Silence falls for a long, careful moment.

Then Jon leans into Alyssa and smiles. “That sounds perfect.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [ tumblr](https://stainyourhands.tumblr.com/). Comments and kudos always appreciated!


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